


Between Past and Present Tense

by sarcasticsra



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Breathplay, Bullying, F/M, Homophobic Language, M/M, Marking, Multi, brief depictions of child abuse, imagined knifeplay, implied underage sexual content, minor self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsra/pseuds/sarcasticsra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But in this career path, relationships and self-identity are not prioritized. While spies are trained to be able to ingratiate themselves with others, fooling strangers is a long way from the honesty and communication that people in relationships tend to expect. Combined with an emotionally stunted bedrock, navigating these waters can be ill-advised at best and downright dangerous at worst, often with little hope of success." </p><p>And yet, despite everything, Michael Westen finds himself trying anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Augh, it feels like I've been working on this _forever_ , and it's finally being posted. Thanks so much to Kelly for all the cheerleading, and to Kelly and Abigail for the amazingly speedy betas. They are life-savers.
> 
> This fic is also accompanied by two wonderful mixes: [here](http://ecto-gammat.livejournal.com/180752.html) and [here](http://gonerunningaway.dreamwidth.org/7152.html). They're both well worth a listen!

**I.**  


“Get back here!”

Michael grinned at Andre as they ran for it, Mr. Peterson’s angry, bellowing voice following them down the street.

Andre grinned back, shifting Mr. Peterson’s prized lawn gnome underneath his arm as they ran. “He’ll never catch us,” he said confidently.

“Never,” agreed Michael.

They kept running, not looking back. Eventually, they stopped hearing shouts behind them, and they ducked behind one of the houses—Mr. Carter’s. He was gone for the week, so it was a safe place to hide for now.

“What should we do with it?” Andre asked, handing it over.

“Hold it for ransom?” He laughed.

Andre laughed too. “Send him a note? ‘If you ever want to see its ugly face again, stop picking on the girls.’”

“His face would be _priceless_.”

“Think it’d work?”

“Maybe,” Michael said, smirking. “If it didn’t, we could always take something else.”

“His flowers?”

“Add that to the note. ‘Or your roses get it next.’” He grinned.

Andre grinned back. “Let’s stash it for now.”

“How about Mr. Carter’s shed? He never opens it.”

“Perfect.” They hid the gnome and left Mr. Carter’s yard, making sure no one was around to see them.

Andre was the first to mention it. “It’s getting close to dinner time.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. His expression said everything for him.

Andre nodded. “Yeah.”

“It’ll be worse if we’re late.”

“I know.”

They headed back home. Michael’s was first on the way, and he waved at Andre before heading inside. “Ma?”

“Michael, don’t—”

“Is that the little shit?” came his dad’s voice from the back room. Michael steeled his expression; he knew that tone. He kept his head up, defiantly meeting his father's eyes when he appeared in front of him, large and looming. “You want to explain why I just got a call from one of your teachers accusing you of stealing from him?”

“He hasn’t got any proof,” Michael said stubbornly. “Besides, it’s not like you never steal anything.”

That earned him a backhand. “Are you talking back to me?”

“It’s true!” he said, glaring as he rubbed his cheek. “Besides, Mr. Peterson’s a jackass! He picks on the girls in class and never gives them a break. If they get a question wrong he makes fun of them!”

“Give him back whatever the hell you stole.”

“No.”

“What did you—”

“I said _no_. I won’t. He’s a _jackass_ and so are you.”

“You little—”

He lunged, but Michael was faster. He dodged his father’s hand and ran for the door. “Michael, it’s getting dark!” his mother called after him, voice frantic with worry, but he wasn’t going back, not right now.

He kept running for a while, eventually ending up at the park that he and Andre and Ricky and the other kids hung out at a lot. He kicked at the dirt and muttered under his breath. He hated stupid Mr. Peterson and he hated his _stupid_ father even more.

“Michael?”

He glanced up. “Andre?”

Andre snorted. “Mr. Peterson called your dad too, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I hate him.”

“Me too.”

They sat on one of the benches, not saying anything for a few long minutes. “I’m hungry,” Andre said finally.

“Me too,” Michael said. “I think I have a couple dollars. Want to see what we could get from the convenience store?”

“Sure.”

They left the park together.

\---

“Hey, kids!” called one of the guys hanging around across the street from the convenience store—Ryan, Michael knew. He was well-known for being in with the Overlords.

“Let’s just ignore him,” Michael muttered to Andre, who started slowing down.

“We should see what he wants,” Andre said, and while Michael gave him a skeptical look, they stopped and waited for Ryan to catch up to them.

“What?” he asked, chin up defiantly, meeting Ryan’s eyes.

“Whoa there, tough guy,” Ryan said, letting out a fluttery laugh. “No need to get hostile. I’m about to do you two a favor.”

Andre glanced at him, then back at Ryan. “What kind of favor?”

“There’s a package me and the guys need delivered,” he said. “You two would be perfect to do the delivering.”

“That sounds more like us doing you a favor,” Michael said flatly.

“You’d be generously compensated,” Ryan said, flashing him a grin. “And you’d be on our good side. That’s the favor.”

“Not interested,” Michael said. “Let’s go, Andre.”

Andre hesitated, once again wavering between him and Ryan. Then he shrugged. “We have to get home anyway,” he said.

Ryan raised an eyebrow as they left him. Michael noticed Andre glance back.

\---

“I’m just saying, Sally Jones has a huge thing for you,” Andre told him, grinning, as they headed to the park after school.

Michael groaned. “She does _not_.”

“She does! She’s writing your name all over her notebooks. Jackie saw them.”

“Who says Jackie’s telling the truth?”

“Face it, Michael. Sally totally wants you.” Michael just rolled his eyes, and Andre gave him a curious look. “How come you don’t like her?”

“I do like her,” Michael said. “Sally’s cool.”

“That’s not the way I mean,” Andre said. “Half the guys in school would jump at the chance to go out with her.”

“I’m not half the guys in school, am I?”

“Yeah, you’re cooler than them all.” Andre smirked.

“Shut up.”

“So if you don’t like Sally, who _do_ you like?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t like anybody.”

“Liar. Everybody likes _somebody_.”

“Oh yeah? Then who do you like?” Andre snapped his mouth shut. Michael smirked triumphantly. “See? I’m not the only one.”

“No, you are,” Andre said defensively, after a moment. “I like…I like Jackie.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Jackie? Why her?”

“Why not her?” challenged Andre. “She’s hot. And she punched out that guy who tried to take her lunch money.”

“That _was_ cool,” Michael agreed. “But she’s…she’s _Jackie_. She’s like one of the guys.”

“But she’s _not_ a guy,” Andre huffed. “Just because you’re weird and don’t like anybody doesn’t mean I am too.”

“Whatever,” said Michael, suddenly annoyed. “Just because I don’t like anybody doesn’t mean I’m weird.”

“Yeah, it does. I bet everyone would agree with me!”

“Who cares what people agree?” Michael scowled. “I’m not going to the park today. Have fun without me.”

He took off before Andre could say another word. He didn’t go home—like hell he would do that before he had to—so he ended up wandering the neighborhood. He hung out with Mrs. Simmons for a little bit, helping her water her garden—she always paid him for it, plus gave him homemade cookies.

It ate up some time, but it was boring as hell without Andre there to get into a water fight with.

Michael didn’t understand what the big deal was. Who cared if he didn’t like anybody? Everyone at school talked about how much they looked forward to spending time with their crushes, but Michael had never felt like that about any girls. Sure, some were his friends, but the only person he really looked forward to spending time with was Andre, and that didn’t count.

He paused on that thought. It _didn’t_ , right?

Michael frowned to himself as he left Mrs. Simmons’. He knew there was such a thing as guys who liked other guys—his dad called them fags—but that wasn’t _him_ , was it? How did someone even tell the difference between liking someone as a friend and liking them as more, anyway?

As distracted as he was, he actually went home early. Ma made him help her make dinner, and as he peeled potatoes, he decided maybe he’d try going out with Sally.

\---

“I thought you didn’t _like_ Sally,” said Andre, cornering him a little over a week later. “Jackie said you went out with her.”

Michael rolled his eyes and slammed his locker shut. “So maybe I changed my mind.”

“You didn’t change your mind.”

“How would _you_ know?” Michael asked him. “Why do you care, anyway? You were the one saying it was weird that I didn’t like anyone.”

“It was weird,” Andre said stubbornly.

“Well, now I like someone, so I guess I’m not weird.”

“Except you don’t really like her!”

“You really like Jackie. I really like Sally.” He gave him a look and pushed passed him. “I’m going to be late for math.”

Andre just glared after him, which Michael tried to ignore. He tried to ignore it all through math class, actually, but it didn’t work. Why were they even fighting over this? It was stupid. He didn’t like fighting with Andre, either—it wasn’t _right_. They fought with other people, sure, but not each other, so why the hell was it like this?

That didn’t stop him from avoiding Andre at lunch, though, and it didn’t stop him from leaving school right after the final bell instead of waiting at the flag pole like usual.

He avoided the park again, heading for the convenience store. Today was Tuesday, which meant Rebecca would be the one at the register, not her father. She let them just hang around in the air conditioning as long as they didn’t make a mess and occasionally helped her with the shoplifters. Sometimes she even snuck them a donut or a snow cone or something.

Michael was only there ten minutes when Andre walked in. He was by himself, and they froze once they saw each other.

He unfroze first. “I have to go,” he said, heading for the door.

“Wait, Michael,” Andre said, catching up. “Wait.”

“What?” Michael asked, defensive.

Andre shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking anywhere but at Michael’s face. “I don’t really like Jackie,” he mumbled.

Michael wasn’t sure why, but it felt like something loosened in his chest. He liked it. “You don’t?”

“No. I just said I did because—because I don’t know, because I just did.” He shrugged.

Michael nodded as if that made perfect sense. “I don’t really like Sally,” he told him, and Andre smiled a little.

“Okay,” he said. “And it’s not weird if you don’t like anyone.”

“Yeah, but I think I might like someone after all,” he said before he could stop himself, wincing when he realized he couldn’t take it back.

Andre frowned. “You do? Who?”

Michael glanced around the store. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

They left, and Michael headed for the park, particularly one of the trails that no one ever used because there were way too many bugs. “Why do we need to be all the way back here?” Andre asked, swatting a mosquito.

“We just do,” he said.

“Come on, just tell me who you like. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t even know if I really do,” Michael said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Who is it?” Andre demanded. “Is it Annie?”

“No.”

“Jenny? Wait, is it Jackie? Is that why you were pissed at me?”

“No, it’s not Jackie or Jenny.” Michael shook his head. “Just never mind! It doesn’t matter. I just…I don’t know, okay?”

“I’m your best friend!” Andre sounded frustrated. “Why can’t you tell me?”

Michael did something then that he probably shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. He pressed Andre back against a nearby tree and kissed him.

Andre didn’t punch him. In fact, Andre kissed him back, at least until he pushed him away and muttered, “If you pushed me up against poison ivy, Michael, I’m going to kill you.” Then he pushed him up against a tree on the other side of the trail and kissed him again.

Michael decided right then that he liked kissing Andre. He’d only kissed two other people in his life—Sally, on their one date, and a girl named Annabelle who didn’t even go to their school anymore, way back in fourth grade, as a dare. Neither had felt like this.

Kissing Annabelle had been awkward; he’d barely known her, and he’d had no idea what to do with his hands. Kissing Sally had felt like kissing a sister.

Kissing Andre, on the other hand…kissing Andre felt _good_. He didn’t know if they were necessarily doing it right, but it sure _felt_ right, and he let out a soft noise. When they broke apart, breathing hard, they just looked at each other for a long while, not saying a word.

Michael swallowed. He was the first to break the silence. “If liking nobody is weird, liking your best friend is probably weird too.”

“Yeah,” Andre said. “But no one else has to know, right?”

“Like what _really_ happened to Mr. Peterson’s lawn gnome?” he asked, smirking.

“It’s just another secret,” agreed Andre, smirking back. “Another awesome secret.”

Michael grinned.

\---

There were some definite advantages to secretly dating your best friend, Michael decided. No one thought it was weird that you spent so much time together, and you could be left alone in your respective rooms—with the door closed.

Andre’s mother was even out of the house right now, doing some last minute grocery shopping, and they definitely weren’t wasting the time alone doing homework.

Michael let his math book fall to the floor as Andre kissed him, returning it with equal enthusiasm. They were getting pretty good at this, he thought; making out had never seemed like all that much fun to him before he and Andre started doing it.

He gasped, taking in a deep breath when they broke apart, grinning at each other. “How long do you think we have?”

“My mom takes forever at the store,” he said. “At least another hour.”

Michael grinned. “Awesome.” He leaned in and kissed Andre again.

“This is way better than homework,” he agreed, returning the kiss.

Michael laughed. “Yeah.”

\---

It was after school when they ran into Harry Rockwell and his idiot group of friends gathered around the flag pole.

“What the hell is that about?” Andre asked.

“Nothing good,” Michael said, and they went in to get a closer look.

Michael frowned when he saw Martin Addler being forcibly taped to the flag pole with duct tape, tears streaming down his face. Martin was a shy, quiet kid, who mostly kept to himself and had never done anything to anyone. “What the hell, guys?” he demanded.

“Here to join the party, Michael?” asked Harry, grinning as he looked up.

“What the fuck are you doing to him?” Andre asked.

“Teaching him a lesson,” Harry said, glaring back at Martin. “Caught this fucking faggot checking me out after gym class, in the locker room.”

Michael and Andre exchanged a look. “You’re full of shit, Harry,” Michael said, moving to help Martin down. One of Harry’s friends tried to throw a punch, but Michael had plenty of practice dodging better-thrown punches than that. He also wasn’t above kneeing him right in the crotch to send him down. “Leave him alone,” he snapped.

Andre appeared right next to him. “Unless you want to take us both on?” he asked, grinning in that way that suggested he’d welcome it, that he was itching for a good fight.

Harry’s remaining friends gave him a worried look, and even Harry himself looked frustrated. “Seriously?” he said. “You’re sticking up for this fag? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Anyone you don’t like has to be worth getting to know,” Andre said, turning that grin on him. Michael snorted and started untaping Martin from the pole, this time without anyone trying to stop him.

“What the fuck ever,” Harry said. “This isn’t worth my time. Let’s get the fuck out of here, guys.”

They stomped off, and Michael and Andre continued freeing Martin. “You okay?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” Martin said quietly. He looked a little relieved, but mostly resigned, like he’d gotten used to this kind of thing. “Thanks.”

He wandered away without so much as meeting their eyes.

Michael and Andre exchanged a look. “Fuck Harry,” Andre said.

“Seriously,” he said, then smirked. “What do you think, should he get caught with a knife or some drugs?”

Andre laughed. “Tough choice, but man, I like the way you think.”

\---

There were some definite disadvantages to secretly dating your best friend, Michael decided. Trying not to hurt girls’ feelings when they thought you were single, all your other friends ribbing you about why you hadn’t gone out with this girl or that one, calling you chicken.

“‘I didn’t want to’ apparently isn’t a good enough answer,” Michael said, rolling his eyes as he dribbled the ball.

“Wouldn’t you just love to see the looks on their faces if we told them _why_ we didn’t want to?”

Michael snorted. He took a shot, making the basket, and Andre grabbed the ball. “If only that would be worth it. Seeing their expressions...”

“Especially when they realized a couple of fags have gotten into more fights than the rest of them combined?” Andre grinned, taking his own shot—he also made it.

Michael grinned as he grabbed the ball. It was fun to imagine, but they both knew they could never do it. School would be unbearable. Being at home would be even more unbearable than it already was.

“Sucks that we can’t,” he said, taking another shot. That one missed.

Andre’s smirk dimmed. “Yeah.”

\---

“We need a car.”

Given the desperate look in Andre’s eyes, Michael didn’t hesitate. He ran to the nearest car, Andre right behind him, and jimmied open the door. He had it hotwired in no time at all, and they were on the road before he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Stubby’s.”

Michael almost slammed on the brakes. “Stubby’s? Why the hell would you need to go there?”

“I have something I need to get to them.” He held up an envelope.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “You’re not working for them, are you?”

“It’s nothing, Michael. I just deliver a few things. This one’s late, though—the guy I was supposed to pick it up from was totally fucked up, and if I don’t get there quick, they’re going to think I just took it—”

“We’ll get there.”

Andre relaxed slightly.

They did get there, and Andre made his delivery in the nick of time. When they were back in the car and heading toward a neighborhood where they could leave it, Michael spoke up. “Why are you working for gangsters, Andre?”

“I’m not really doing _that_ much.”

“They’re bad guys.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“You didn’t even tell me.”

“You’re not my mother, Michael,” Andre snapped.

He let it drop.

\---

“I want to get out of here,” Michael said.

Andre took a sip from his bottle—now that they were older, seniors, Rebecca would sometimes slip them beer, in thanks. “Out of where?”

“Miami,” he said. “Florida.”

“Where would you go?”

“I could join the Army,” Michael said. “If I could get my dad to sign the permission slip, I wouldn’t even have to wait until my birthday.” He snorted. “Shouldn’t be too hard. I bet he wants me out of the house.”

“The Army?” Andre asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

Andre shrugged, not saying anything. Michael frowned.

\---

“He signed it,” Michael said.

“What?” Andre asked. He blinked. “Not—the permission slip? You were serious about that?”

“Of course I was serious,” Michael said, frowning. “You didn’t think I was?”

“I thought you were just talking, like we do,” Andre said. “You’re really going to join the Army?”

“What else is there?”

“There’s a hell of a lot,” Andre said, suddenly fierce. “There’s your family and your friends. There’s _me_.”

“What is there for me to do?” Michael countered. “I don’t want to turn into another thug.”

“Like me?”

“I didn’t say that,” he gritted out. “I just—I have to get the hell out of here. Or—”

“Or what?” he demanded. “Or you’ll end up like me? Say it! That’s what you mean, isn’t it? When the hell did you get too good for all this, Michael? Too good for me?”

“It’s different!” he insisted. “You’re working for bad guys, Andre. I won’t do it. I’m getting out.”

Andre just glared at him. “Then get the fuck out. What the hell do I care?”

Michael matched his glare before storming off. He didn’t look back.

\---

Years later, Michael would look back and regret that conversation.

It was the last one they ever had.

 

  
**i.**   


Ricky told him after he’d been out of prison for almost two weeks. “You know, Michael’s in town,” he said.

Andre eyed his brother. That hadn’t been casual, no matter how he’d tried. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely, far as I can tell,” Ricky said, shrugging. “His mom didn’t go into detail, but something happened with his job that’s keeping him here. He helped me out a while back.”

“Good of him,” he muttered, mind reeling. The last time he’d seen Michael, they’d both been seventeen, and they’d gotten into the biggest fight of their friendship—and whatever the hell else it’d been.

 _I have to get the hell out of here_ , Michael had said fiercely. _Or—_

 _Or what?_ he’d shot back. _Or you’ll end up like me? When the hell did you get too good for all this, Michael? Too good for me?_

_This is different. You’re working for bad guys, Andre. I won’t do it. I’m getting out._

_Then get the fuck out. What do I care?_

“You should call him.”

His brother’s voice broke him out of his reverie. Startled, he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Yeah, I should. I will.”

Ricky didn’t look convinced, but that was fair. He hadn’t even convinced himself.

\---

Three months in and he was still keeping his promises. He hadn’t fallen back into the game. He had a legit job, crappy as it was, a graveyard shift stocking shelves. His ex was even letting him spend time alone with his girls, who were getting to know him again.

Things were good, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised when Ricky brought it up again. “Call Michael yet?”

He glanced up from where he was helping Tina draw a star. “Not yet,” he said. “I will. Once things settle down.”

Ricky raised an eyebrow at him. “Settle down?”

“Yeah.” It’d sounded weak even to his own ears, but what else could he say? How could he tell his brother exactly why calling Michael was such a hard thing to do, why it might be a fucking awful idea? “In a little while.”

“Look, Daddy, I did it!” said Tina suddenly, pointing proudly to her slightly-lopsided star. He smiled at her.

“You sure did, sweetheart. Great job.”

He kissed her head, ignoring the look his brother shot him.

\---

“You’re not gonna call him, are you?” Ricky asked again, almost seven months since he’d been out and still going strong. “Michael, I mean.”

“I will,” he said, and he almost meant it. “It’s just complicated, Ricky. You don’t understand.”

“I understand how hard you took it when he left,” he said. “I _understand_ you were more than just friends.”

Andre snapped his head up. “What?”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” he demanded. “I followed you guys everywhere. Hell, I wanted to _be_ you. I saw you once.”

“You never said a fucking thing.”

“I may never have been as smart as you two, but I wasn’t stupid,” Ricky said, giving him a pointed look. “I knew what would happen if our dad had found out, or Michael’s, or, hell, even the rest of the neighborhood kids.”

Andre sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fuck. All this time, Michael and I thought we were the only ones who knew.”

Ricky snorted. “Yeah, right. If his mom didn’t know, I’ll eat my shoe.” He eyed him. “So is that really all it is?”

“No,” said Andre. “It’s part of it, but…Michael had shit figured out. He knew what would happen if he stayed. Exactly what happened to me. I didn’t want to hear it. Calling him now, after all this time, what the fuck do I say?”

“Start with hello, go from there.”

Andre rolled his eyes. “You’re a fuck of a lot of help.”

Ricky smirked. “That’s what brothers are for.”

“I feel like I’ve got something to prove,” Andre admitted after another moment. “That I’m not a total fuckup like he thinks.”

“Oh, come on, he doesn’t think that.”

“Why not? I _was_ a fuckup for a hell of a long time.”

“You’re not now.”

“So far.”

“You planning on something else you’re not saying?”

“No, but—”

“Then you’re not now.”

Andre gave him a look. “You’re the _younger_ brother, Ricky. You’re not supposed to be the reassuring one.”

“Too bad,” he said, standing. “Call him.”

“I will,” he said. He did mean it that time. “But not yet. When it’s been a year.”

Ricky looked skeptical, but he must’ve read the look on his face, because he only nodded slowly. “Fine,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

“Hey, Ricky?” he called.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

\---

“He felt like he had to prove himself to you,” Ricky told Michael when it was just the two of them left, lingering at Andre’s grave. “That’s why he never called.”

He watched Michael’s expression churn. “He didn’t,” he said. “It would’ve been good to hear from him.”

“I told him that, but you know Andre. He had to come around to things his way.”

A ghost of a smile graced Michael’s lips. “Yeah, he did.”

“It meant a lot to him, you know,” Ricky added casually. “What the two of you had.”

Michael was a hell of a lot better at concealing his emotions than Andre, but Ricky could still see the shock. “He told you?”

“No. I knew.”

Michael swallowed and didn’t say anything for a moment. Eventually, he shook his head. “It, uh—it meant a lot to me too.”

“Duh,” said Ricky, grinning just a little. Michael smiled back.


	2. Chapter 2

****

**II.**

“Not bad, kid,” the older guy said approvingly, grin spreading across his face. “You’ve got damn good instincts. What’s your name?”

“Michael,” he said.

“Michael,” he repeated, grinning somehow wider, showing off row after row of perfectly straight, white teeth. “Nice to meet you, Michael. The name’s Larry.”

They shook hands.

\---

The motel was small and low-end, intended for people who needed to fly under the radar, which was what this particular mission called for. It was where he and Larry had to lay low for a day or two while the first phase of their plan finished falling into place.

The clerk at the check-in counter had neglected to mention the fact that there was only one bed. Maybe this had been why he’d refused to meet their eyes.

“That was _fun_ ,” Larry was saying, grinning from ear to ear. Michael definitely wasn’t smiling when Larry glanced back at him, sitting down on the bed without commenting on it. “You’re so damn serious all the time, kid,” he added. “You need to learn to lighten up. Have some fun with the job from time to time.”

They did work well together, Michael had to admit, and Larry was pretty supportive. He’d learned a lot from him already. Combine that with the fact that Larry, while older, was still _very_ good-looking, and he also had to admit that sharing such close quarters with him was going to be interesting.

“You can take the bed,” he said, putting his bag on the chair. “I’m going to shower.”

Larry raised an eyebrow at him, giving him an amused look. “Don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ guys,” he said. “Whose masculinity is threatened by just the slightest hint of anything terrifyingly ‘ _queer_.’” He even used air quotes around the word.

“What? No.” Michael frowned. “It’s just—it’s a small bed, that’s all. Two of us on it probably won’t work so well.”

“Oh?” He looked skeptical—and still amused. “You’re sure this isn’t just because the clerk assumed you were being paid by the hour?”

“He _what_?”

“Powerful, overseas, _repressed_ businessman,” he said, pointing at himself, “and male prostitute,” he continued, pointing at Michael. “It’s no secret this motel gets that kind of thing a lot. That’s practically what it was built for.” He snorted, probably at the somewhat gobsmacked expression Michael figured was on his face. “What’s the matter, Michael? Does being mistaken for a hooker ruffle your feathers?”

“No,” he said, covering his surprise. “It doesn’t bother you, being mistaken for someone who requires the services of a male prostitute?”

“Well, maybe the idea that I’d have to pay for it.” He smirked. “Can’t let assumptions get to you, kid, especially ones like that. It means they’ll probably underestimate you, and that always comes in handy.”

Michael gave Larry a curious look.

“Oh, come on, kid, think! I know you heard it in boot camp, hell, everywhere. Queers, sissies, fags, it all comes down to the same thing: thinking you’re weak. And people who do that when they shouldn’t, well.” He grinned in a very unsettling way, yet Michael couldn’t help but be drawn in. “They don’t last too long, now do they?”

It was an interesting idea. If someone didn’t see you as a threat, Michael supposed it could be easier to get them to let down their guard. It was almost poetic, the thought of using someone’s stupidity against them. He smirked.

“There’s what I like to see,” Larry said, grinning. “Some enjoyment. You have to squeeze the good moments out of life, kid. They sure as hell aren’t going to be handed to you.”

“I—”

“Did I say I wanted to hear you speak, whore?” Larry said suddenly, a little drawl to his voice—it wasn’t his own. The look in his eyes was alert, and he held up a hand, pointing toward the door.

Michael quickly noticed what Larry had—there was a distinct shadow underneath the door crack. Someone was right outside, probably eavesdropping.

“That’s what I thought. Stop trying to think for yourself and get in the shower. I’ll make myself comfortable. Then you can do what I’m paying you for.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, injecting a little Russian into his accent.

The person outside the door, whoever it was, slowly walked away.

“Now why was someone so curious?” Larry muttered quietly.

Michael tensed. “If we’ve been compromised—”

“We don’t know that yet. Calm down. If we panic and get pulled out, the bad guys around these parts get free rein for longer. I know you don’t want that.”

He nodded. “I’ll start the shower.”

“Good kid. I’ll distract the clerk. You get into the office.”

Michael ran the water in the bathroom. They were careful leaving the room, making sure no one saw them, and Larry put on an act for the clerk’s benefit, keeping his attention strictly on him, affording Michael the leeway to sneak past him, into the office.

He searched it quickly and thoroughly, coming up empty, at least until he noticed the dimensions of the desk drawers didn’t make sense. Sure enough, the last one had a false bottom, and he pulled out a folder—pictures, names, various older guys with younger men and women in plenty of compromising positions.

That explained it. Blackmail.

Michael put the folder back and slipped out of the office just as Larry wrapped up with the clerk. They headed back to the room, and Larry snorted when he told him what he’d found. “Cute scam,” he said. “Just one question. How are they getting the pictures?”

“They probably don’t have the means to keep every room under constant surveillance,” Michael said. “They have to be using the prostitutes. Either cutting them in or threatening them, maybe both.”

“That means you’ll probably be approached,” Larry said, grin splitting his face. “Oh, kid, this is going to be _fun_.”

He gave him a skeptical look. “Fun?”

“They’re going to try to blackmail the wrong businessman,” he said, smirking. “When they recruit you, make sure you stress just how terrifying I am.” He grinned. “Then I’ll show them.” Sitting back on the bed, looking thoughtful, he added, “They won’t approach you until you’re alone—maybe if you leave the room sometime tonight, smoke break or something. For now, might as well go take your shower.”

Right, the water—it was still running. Michael nodded and headed into the bathroom—which, by then, was practically a sauna—and stripped, taking a quick shower. When he got out and toweled off, he realized he'd left his bag in the main room. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked out to get it.

Larry had taken off his jacket, shoes, and belt, and was lounging on the bed, reading some outdated magazine—in Russian, it looked like. He glanced up, and while his expression seemed neutral, Michael couldn’t help but feel suddenly _hot_.

He didn’t embarrass easily. There was something about Larry. Sometimes Michael felt like he could see right through him. On the one hand, it was kind of unsettling.

On the other hand, it was kind of exhilarating.

“Left my bag,” he muttered, picking it up off the chair.

Larry raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “And here I thought you were just getting into your part.” He snorted, and Michael was struck by the feeling that even though he’d kept his expression perfectly even, Larry could still tell he threw him off-kilter. “Forget it, kid. Though it does bring up a problem—you’re far too pretty to be a whore. The average street hustler around here looks a little worse for wear.” He eyed him critically. “Guess you’ll just have to convince them you haven’t been at it long.”

Michael faltered, visibly that time. He tried to cover with a question. “Worse for wear?”

“Yeah, you know.” Larry stood, meandering over. Michael tried not to tense. “Your face would be weathered,” he said, gesturing with a hand. “You’d probably have more scars. And you wouldn’t be this fit.” There he gestured at his chest in a downward motion, hand as close as it could get without actually touching.

Michael wondered what would happen if he took just a half a step forward, enough that Larry’s hand would brush against his abs.

Deliberately meeting Larry’s eyes, almost challenging, he did just that.

Larry smiled a small, pleased smile, tilting his head. His eyes were suddenly dark, intense. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” he said, hand sliding to Michael’s hip, thumb dipping under the towel.

He was barely touching him, and still Michael felt like every inch of his skin was about to catch on fire.

“Here’s your chance to walk away, kid,” Larry told him. “Say it was an accident, I’ll step back, we’ll pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It wasn’t an accident.”

He grinned. Then he moved so fast Michael barely had time to react; before he registered what happened, he was pinned up against the wall, hands above his head, and Larry was kissing him intently.

Michael felt a little like he was suffocating, Larry’s body covering his own while he kissed him with a focus and passion that left him dizzy. This was nothing like making out with Andre had been. That had been two teenagers fumbling together, slowly figuring things out—what felt good, what worked, what didn’t, sneaking in desperate groping sessions whenever they could.

Larry was neither fumbling nor desperate. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and was taking his time doing it; everything felt _targeted_ , from how roughly he was kissing him, to where he was touching him, to the firm, deliberate way he kept his arms pinned above his head.

Every move was designed to make him _want._

Michael couldn’t get enough of it. He kissed back hungrily, squirming against him, desperate for more.

“Jesus,” Larry said in a breathless murmur, pulling away. “You’re eager, huh?”

Michael gasped for breath, eyes wide, meeting Larry’s gaze. It was hotter than the sun, enough to make his mouth go dry. “I—”

“Yeah?” he asked, lowering his mouth to his neck, kissing, biting there. “Where do you want me to start?”

“ _Anywhere_.”

Larry grinned. “Just what I like to hear,” he said, pulling the towel away and letting it drop to the floor. He took a small step backward, just enough to give him a good, long onceover, his eyes raking up and down his body.

Michael briefly wondered if this might be how kindling felt, just before the match was lit.

“God, kid, look at you. Sin personified,” Larry said, voice low and dark and dangerous. He wrapped a hand around Michael’s rapidly-hardening cock and leaned in again, murmuring, “I’m going to make you scream so hard and so loud and so long it hurts to _breathe_ and your vocal cords feel like they’re being ripped from your _throat_ , and you’re going to love every…single… _second_ of it so much that even when you think you’ve had enough, even when you think you can’t take any more, you’re going to beg and plead with me to do it all over again.” He bared his teeth. “How’s that sound?”

In that instant, Michael knew that Larry was a wildfire, all rage and intensity and mindless destruction, and given half a chance, he’d consume him, burn him up, reduce him to nothing more than smoke and ash and dust; in that instant, Michael couldn’t resist the flame, because he knew how alive it would make him feel.

In that instant, the only thing Michael could do was reply with a shuddery, “Yes, _please_ ,” surrendering himself to the heat and letting it swallow him whole.

\---

“He found out,” Michael said, rage shaking each syllable, as he watched the building burn through a pair of binoculars.

“No.” Larry’s tone was so sharp it could cut glass. “Someone _told_ him.”

Michael glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You think it was our informant.”

“I don’t think it, kid,” he said. “I know it. I can feel it. And what’s more, so can you.”

Michael had to admit Larry was right. Petrov had given him a bad feeling the second they’d met, and despite all the claims that he was reliable, Michael had never fully trusted him. Evidently neither had Larry. “You didn’t trust him either.”

“No, I did not,” he said. “And when I saw you had the same instinct, I knew it even more.”

“You saw that?”

“Of course I saw that. I know you, I know how you carry yourself. Just as I know that you are _pissed off_ this bastard helped our target get off scot-free. You want to do something about it just as much as I do.”

It did piss him off. He could feel the anger bubbling inside him, making his fingers itch. He tried to shove it away—emotions like this were dangerous in the field. “What can we do now?”

“Don’t _do_ that, kid,” Larry said, taking him by the shoulder and looking him directly in the eyes. “Don’t bury that anger, that passion. That’s what keeps you going. Use it. Let it energize you. Never bury it. You need it.”

“It doesn’t help,” he replied.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “That’s where all the idiots who act like they know everything are wrong. Maybe every once in a while, you’ll find someone who really doesn’t let anything get to him, but that’s not someone I’d want on my team. I want someone I know has something driving him, something furious and unquenchable. You’ve got that, kid, and you shouldn’t hide it. It’s the best asset you have.”

He took a deep breath and thought about that, and about the weeks of planning, careful preparation, manipulation, all down the drain because some _idiot_ was too cowardly or greedy to keep his mouth shut. The anger bubbled higher, threatening to spill out.

“That’s it, kid,” Larry said, grip tightening on his shoulder. His thumb dug into a deliciously sore spot Larry knew damn well was there. Michael had begged himself hoarse the night he’d left it.

A familiar warmth spread through his body, and his every muscle felt taut. He met Larry’s eyes, which were swimming with a dark, intense fury. “You’re right,” he said at last. “We have to do something.”

Larry smiled like a shark. “Excellent.”

\---

“You’ve worked with Sam Axe, haven’t you?” Michael asked Larry as they assembled the (small) bomb they’d be planting.

Larry glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve crossed paths.”

“I worked with him in Poland a month ago,” he said. “He’s good. We got along pretty well.”

“That’s good,” Larry said slowly, and Michael watched him. “I’ll be honest with you, kid—we clashed some, in the past. He always struck me as kind of a boy scout, you know the type.”

“I didn’t get that feeling,” Michael said with a shrug. He noticed Larry’s shoulders tighten. “He said he always thought you were a little out of control.” Those hadn’t been Sam’s exact words. _The man is a psychopath, Mikey. Mention my name to him. See what happens._

Larry grinned. It was both terrifying and irresistible. “Shows how well he knows me, huh, kid?”

Michael smirked. That was true enough—Larry might run on pure passion and have a wild streak a mile wide, but he always, _always_ seemed in control. It was one of the most exhilarating things about him. “Yeah, good point.”

He clapped him on the shoulder. “Now on to more important things—I think we’re done here. Time to make this empire burn.”

\---

Maddeningly, Larry stilled his hips, and the hand on his cock slowed. Michael let out a plaintive noise, his eyes snapping open, and writhed as best he could with his hands bound behind his back.

Larry’s free hand rubbed over a mark low on his throat. “I didn’t give you that,” he said, sounding impossibly casual given the circumstances.

Michael flushed, defenses too far gone. “Yeah,” he gasped, writhing some more. “That was—”

“Sam Axe.” Larry said the name like he was taking a bite out of something.

“Yeah.”

The look in Larry’s eyes suggested he wanted to devour him whole. It went straight to his cock.

“Disappointing work,” he said, pressing hard against the mark with his thumb. “I’ll have to fix that.”

Michael struggled to take a breath. Larry pressed harder, hips moving again, fucking him steadily, forcefully. With the pressure on his throat, it was hard to _breathe_ , and his eyes snapped shut, fireworks exploding behind his eyelids. He drew in another ragged half-breath as Larry pounded into him, feeling dizzy and high, and he knew he couldn’t last, not like this; moments later, a strangled gasp tore from his throat, and he came, eyes squeezing closed so tightly he saw tiny bursts of light.

The pressure on his throat lessened, and Larry held him in place as he continued fucking him; Michael took a deep breath, the sting of the air filling his lungs only enhancing the waves of pleasure coursing through his body. It wasn’t much longer until Larry came, biting over that spot on his throat as he did.

He slowly pulled out, taking off the condom and throwing it in the trash.

“That’s better,” he said, baring his teeth, and rubbed the spot with his thumb yet again. “Don’t you think so, kid?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Christ. Yeah.”

Larry smirked.

\---

They were dead.

They were dead, and he’d let it happen.

He was pretty sure, had he objected, that Larry would have listened, but he hadn’t. _They saw us, kid,_ Larry had said, giving him that expectant look. _You know the danger. What if they find just the right person to blab to? What if someone finds them? It’s easier this way. Not as messy. You know it._

These people hadn’t done anything, aside from be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t about what they had done, but what they _could_ do, who they could talk to, what they could say, what they could destroy, whether they meant to or not. The wrong word to the wrong person could put them both in the ground, and that was unacceptable.

So he’d nodded, said, _Make it quick._ He’d let Larry kill them, and now he was helping him cover it up.

“You’re awfully quiet over there, kid,” Larry said, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“Yeah?” Larry stilled beside him. “Don’t think too hard about this. It had to be done.” He gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty?”

“No,” Michael said, because that was just it: he didn’t feel guilty. He wasn’t sure he felt anything. “I’m wondering if maybe I should, though.”

“Hey, kid—that’s life. It’s not pretty,” Larry said, sending him a pointed look. “Some people live, some people die. Waste your time worrying about the particulars and you’ll never accomplish anything.”

“This doesn’t faze you?”

“The ends justify the means. Isn’t that what they always say?” He snorted. “It’s the system, kid. Don’t claim its faults as your own. You, me—we have to play by its rules if we want to survive. You know that’s true.”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. Part of him agreed with Larry wholeheartedly, saying, _it was them or you, you did what you had to do_. That part had taken over more than once, the part that wanted everyone to pay for the things they did, wanted to reign down fiery vengeance on anyone who deserved it, no matter what that entailed. Larry always told him not to hide it.

There was another part, though, a part that felt more like him when he was around others, Sam in particular, that said there was a line, and _you don’t cross that line, no matter what._

The first part was firm and sure of itself, Michael had to admit. With Larry, things were clear: what had to be done got done, end of discussion.

The second part didn’t offer that kind of certainty, but it’d never made him feel like this—this _nothing._

“Earth to Michael,” cut in Larry’s voice suddenly, like a hot knife through butter. “You still with me, kid?”

“Yeah,” he said again. “Let’s get this done.”

“Attaboy.”

In the morning, he contacted his handler, and asked if he could work with someone else, just for a little bit.

\---

When Michael heard rumors through the grapevine about some of the things Larry allegedly did afterward, he wondered—perhaps traitorously—if he hadn’t made the right decision.

The news of his death still hit him like a sock to the gut.

 

  
**ii.**   


“You haven’t finished with that yet?” By Larry’s calculation, he injected _just_ the right amount of mild surprise into that question to make Sam grit his teeth in frustration.

Sure enough, Sam’s jaw tightened, just barely. Larry hid a smirk. “If you think you could do it better…”

Larry merely held up his hands. “Take as long as you want. It’s not like we’re working with a strict timetable.” He paused. “Hmm, wait.”

Sam only glared before pointedly focusing back on his work. Larry didn’t allow himself to be dismissed; he kept watching. After a few minutes, Sam glanced back up, obviously annoyed. “Isn’t there a puppy somewhere that needs kicking, or maybe a goat that needs sacrificing? You should see to that.”

“Actually, I’m all set, but thanks for the concern.” Larry grinned. It always pissed Sam off when he grinned.

“This isn’t going to get done any faster with you lurking nearby, watching over my shoulder.” He straightened, glancing around. “Where’s Mikey?”

That godawful nickname made his teeth ache. “Michael,” the use of his full name was, of course, deliberate, “is doing his part. He’s scouting our location.”

“Still?” Something in Sam’s demeanor shifted. “He should’ve been back by now.”

“You know Michael,” Larry said. “He loves to be…thorough.” There might have been just the slightest emphasis on the word, enough to make Sam’s eyes cloud over.

“I don’t like it,” he said finally. “It feels off.”

“Always the mother hen, huh, Sam?”

“Dammit, didn’t you hear me? Mike could be in trouble.”

“Michael knows how to handle himself.”

Sam’s look was pure disgust. “You don’t give a damn about him, do you? It’s all just some sick, hilarious game to you.”

Larry was sure his own look more than matched it. “I know Michael. I know how he thinks, I know what he needs, and I know he sure as hell can handle this crappy militia with one hand tied behind his back.” He rolled his eyes. “But if you’d like to play the white knight, let’s do our own scouting. Maybe we’ll get there in time to help him slit a few dozen throats.”

That did sound like fun. His fingers twitched, itching to grab his switchblade.

“I will never understand what the hell Mike sees in you,” Sam said at last, derision lacing his tone.

Larry merely grinned again, pulling his switchblade out of his pocket. He flipped it open, examining the blade. “I guess we do have something in common.”

Sam stood, glaring as he did. “Let’s go make sure he’s all right.”

“Mama Bear,” said Larry, faux-admiring.

“What would you know?” Sam asked. “You’d probably eat your young.”

Larry pressed the blade into his thumb, drawing blood. He imagined it was Sam’s throat.

The thought cheered him up.

“Where—” He stopped when he heard a noise, faint but there, the distinct sound of someone approaching. Sam obviously heard it too, his stance shifting.

“Guys?” asked Michael, coming into the clearing.

“Told you.” Larry smirked his _I’m smarter than you_ smirk, enjoying the way Sam tried not to bristle. “You were thorough, kid?”

“Of course.”

“Good, good.” He draped an arm around Michael’s shoulder, noting with interest where his thumb left a small bloodstain on his shirt. He liked that, a little mark that said, ‘Property of Larry—hands off.’ He also liked the idea of Michael and blood, maybe a pretty little line welling up along his inner thigh. Michael would let him. Hell, Michael would beg for more, and he did beg so nicely. “I knew it,” he added. “Mother hen over here was worried about you. Like you couldn’t handle those guys in your sleep.”

Michael grinned, obviously pleased. Sam made a disgusted noise, deep in his throat. Once again, Larry imagined slitting it.

“Mikey, think you could help me out with this?” he asked. “It’ll go faster, and we’ve got a timetable to keep to. Larry can take over your perimeter sweep—he was waiting for something to do.”

“Sure,” Michael agreed. “That okay with you, Larry?”

“It sounds fine, kid,” Larry said, squeezing his shoulder while giving Sam a pointed look. “He needs the help.” He grinned to make it seem like lighthearted teasing. The look in Sam’s eyes suggested he wasn’t fooled, but that was all for the best. Insults were never as satisfying when the person you insulted didn’t notice. “I’ll be back in twenty.”

“See ya,” said Sam, so thoroughly a dismissal that Larry had to forcibly stop himself from lunging at him. If he killed Sam, he told himself, Michael would stop trusting him. That trade-off wasn’t worth it.

“It’s a mess out there,” Michael said. The _be careful_ was in his eyes. This kid. He was getting to be a master of manipulation, but Larry could still read him like a book.

The thought made him smile. He started humming softly to himself as he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

“Great, everybody, this is Mike, he’ll be helping us out,” said the guy who’d introduced himself as Sam Axe not five minutes previously.

Michael didn’t raise an eyebrow at the nickname, but when Sam turned to him, he said, “It’s Michael, actually.”

“Sure thing,” Sam said, sounding all-business but looking a little amused. “Come on, Mike. You’re with me—this way.”

Michael shook his head and followed.

\---

Sam had not called him ‘Michael’ once throughout their entire mission. By the end of it, however, he’d gotten pretty used to ‘Mike’—it felt almost natural. That was new.

They were decompressing afterward, talking about nothing in particular, the kind of socializing Michael usually hated but found himself enjoying with Sam. That was new too.

“You might know the man I usually work with. He’s been around awhile,” he said. “Larry Sizemore.”

“Larry Sizemore?” Sam raised his eyebrows. “You have to work with that psychopath?” He snorted, shaking his head. “My sympathies.”

Michael's brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

Sam snorted in disbelief. “You can’t tell me you don't _know_. You work with him, you have to see what he's like.”

“I know Larry can be a little—” he paused, searching for the right word, “ _risky_ sometimes, but he always gets the job done. He knows what he's doing.”

“Yeah, risky, that's the word I'd use.” He shook his head. “Never said he didn't know what he was doing. That's the problem, half the time. He knows a little too well. I don't trust people who try to climb inside my head.”

“That's spycraft,” Michael said with a shrug.

“No, I've met other spies who don't creep me the hell out—you, for instance. It’s him. I'm telling you, Mikey, the man is a psychopath. Next time you work together, just mention my name. See what happens.”

“I think you're reading too much into it,” he said after a moment, then raised an eyebrow. "Really, Sam? Mikey? Let me guess—I'm stuck with that now, aren't I?"

Sam only grinned, tipping his beer toward him. Rolling his eyes, and despite himself, Michael grinned too.

\---

It wasn’t a surprise, really, that shorthand developed between two people who worked well together—it was an easier way to communicate, after all, not to mention a more secure one, and it was helpful. All in all, it was definitely a good thing.

But it was maybe a small surprise that he and Sam apparently _already had_ shorthand by the time they were wrapping up the second job they worked together.

Michael couldn’t recall a time when he’d clicked so easily with anyone. Even he and Andre hadn’t been friends this quickly. Everything about it felt so natural, so easy, and honestly, that confused the hell out of him. His life had never been one for easy.

But Sam was incredibly laid-back, eminently approachable, friends with just about everybody, and it was hard not to like him. It didn’t hurt that he was damned attractive, too.

“I have a day before I’m off,” he told him, dropping onto a stool next to him. Once Sam had found the—rather nice—bar in the surprisingly upscale hotel where this last job had landed them, he had declared his intention to never leave. “I think I’m going to head back to my room, do some basic preparation,” which, for him, meant cleaning his weapon and brushing up on his Farsi, “and hit the sack.”

Sam turned to look at him, expression plainly disbelieving. “Are you seriously not going to enjoy this place the last night you’re here?” he asked him. “In thirty-six hours you’re probably going to be squatting in some shack in Afghanistan. Why not relax while you’ve still got access to running water?” He gestured at the hotel, including the pool area.

“Sunbathing isn’t exactly my idea of a good time,” said Michael, dryly.

“That’s what booze is for, Mikey,” he said, grinning. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink.” He turned back toward the bar, smiling at the bartender. “Mina, this is my buddy, Mike. He needs something to loosen him up. What do you recommend?”

Mina smiled, clearly considering this question, before nodding abruptly. “I’ve got just the thing,” she said, and went about making a drink that Michael had never seen before.

She placed it in front of him a few minutes later, and he stared at it, saying, “It’s blue.”

“Just try it, Mikey,” said Sam.

“Only for you, Sam,” Michael said, and Sam grinned as he picked up the glass and took a drink. It was good, he had to admit—this place obviously had decent alcohol—and the drink itself wasn’t too sweet. He took another sip.

“Attaboy, Mike!” Sam said, picking up his own glass and holding it out in a _cheers_ gesture. “To having a day off,” he said.

“All right,” he said, and clinked his against it.

Michael watched Sam throw back the rest of his drink, and he caught himself staring at the hard lines of his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Shaking his head, he took another long drink from his own glass, trying to clear those thoughts from his head. They were dangerous.

“Mina, that was great. I’ll have another,” he declared, flashing her a charming grin.

Mina looked amused. “I like you, Sam. You’re quite the drinker,” she said, picking up his glass and getting him a new drink.

Sam winked. “Keep ‘em coming,” he said. “For Mike too. Between you and me, we’ll convert him.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “This one is fine for now, thanks,” he said.

“Mike,” Sam said, heaving a sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

Michael didn’t respond with what was on the tip of his tongue—‘I could be field-stripping a semi-automatic right now, you know’—because there were civilians who might overhear. Instead, he sent him a communicative look, and Sam laughed like he heard it anyway.

“This is more fun, trust me,” said Sam, nodding sagely. He clapped him on the back. “Also, don’t look now, but you have an admirer at your eight o’clock.”

Michael raised an eyebrow and resisted the urge to turn around, reaching for one of the shiny metal napkin holders on the bar and using it to see behind him. Sure enough, there was a pretty redhead sitting at a table, looking appreciatively in their direction.

He shrugged. “She might be looking at you,” he said.

“I appreciate your confidence in me, Mikey, but she’s _definitely_ been eyeing you,” Sam said, and smirked. “Wanna go talk to her?”

“No,” said Michael, shrugging again. “Not my type.”

“Okay, I have to hear this,” Sam said. “What’s your type?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.” That was a lie, because a description flitted into his mind as soon as he said it: someone strong, someone who could understand him, someone who pushed him, someone he could count on. It fit Andre and Larry, of course, but it just so happened that all those things also fit _Sam_. “I know it when I see it, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly disbelieving. “Well, looks like you’re too late anyway,” he added, and Michael glanced through the napkin holder again to see the redhead being approached by a frankly ridiculously good-looking guy—tall, blond, lean muscle, tanned. Damn.

He noticed Sam’s gaze linger in that direction for a moment, and while most of Michael figured he was just enjoying the woman, part of him couldn’t help but wonder.

“They’ll have fun,” he said, and Sam snorted.

“No kidding.” He shook his head, finishing his drink, and waved at Mina. She smiled and held up an index finger, indicating it’d be a moment—more customers had gathered. “It’s just a shame, Mike, a young, good-looking guy like you, not enjoying his life to the fullest.”

Michael sternly told himself not to read anything into that—it was just a general comment. “I enjoy my life,” he protested.

“Yeah, but you could really use some more me-time. You can’t be a badass superspy all the time. Even they have to eat.”

Michael snorted. “I eat plenty.”

“You also need to sleep.”

“I do that too.”

“And then there’s sex. Sex is important.”

There Michael hesitated, because there was no way he was about to tell Sam about Larry. Even though he didn’t think Sam would care _too_ much about the fact that Larry was a guy, there was still the minor point where he completely hated him. At last, he said, “It’s hard to find the right person.”

“You’re too picky.”

Mina placed Sam’s fresh drink in front of him, and he smiled at her in thanks before taking a sip.

“Not all of us get along with everybody, Sam,” Michael said dryly.

“That’s easy.”

“It’s easy because it’s what you do,” he said. “If I’m getting along with somebody, it’s usually because I’m about to plant a bug on their boss.”

Sam shook his head. “Still,” he said, taking a long look at him. “It’s a shame, that’s all I’m saying.”

It was hard for Michael not to read anything into _that_. Had Sam just checked him out? “It’s not,” he insisted, a beat too late. “I do…all right, I think, considering.”

His eyebrows rose. “Have you been holding out on me?”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Think that means you’re not doing it right.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “What, you’d have pointers?”

“Maybe.” He smirked in a way Michael was trying not to interpret as _you know you want me_ , but Sam made it harder once he leaned in slightly. “Stick with me, Mike. I could probably teach you a thing or two.”

It was practically involuntary, the way Michael’s eyes flicked over Sam’s body after he said that, and that was when his mouth started working faster than his brain. “The bar’s starting to get more crowded,” he said, hoping it sounded casual. “There’s alcohol in the rooms, right?”

“Of course there is.”

Michael briefly bit his lip. “Maybe we should head back there.”

Sam grinned. “Are you saying ‘mini-bar’, Mike? Because I didn’t think you had it in you.” He finished his drink. “Let’s go.”

It was when they were in the hallway that he said it. “I was actually thinking about more than just the mini-bar.” It came out sounding awkward to his own ears, but he wasn’t exactly adept at this. Flirting while undercover was one thing. Hitting on one of his co-workers (especially when he should know better) was another.

Sam laughed. “If you wanted some company, you should’ve said something to that woman who kept eyeing you at the bar.” They came to a stop in front of a hotel room door, and Sam pulled his key card out of his pocket, sliding it in and unlocking the door, pushing it open.

They stepped inside, just in the entrance area. “I don’t want _her_ company,” said Michael meaningfully, feeling brazen. He wasn’t even drunk, which was almost a shame—at least that might have been an excuse for actually saying it.

“I wouldn’t have mind—oh, hold on a second,” Sam said, and Michael watched his meaning sink in. He chuckled, obviously surprised. “Okay, that I didn’t see coming.”

Michael tensed and steeled himself, trying not to feel like his world was falling apart. “Never mind.” Fuck. He’d just fucked up, misread the situation—but Sam was a good guy, maybe he wouldn’t report him. “I didn’t mean—just pretend I never said anything, please?”

“Hey, no, it’s cool, relax,” Sam said, and grinned reassuringly. Michael did relax fractionally. “How do you think I have so many buddies? I was just surprised—you’re pretty tightly coiled, Mikey. I didn’t take you for the fraternization type.”

“It’s not something I do a lot,” he admitted, which was true. So far, there was only Larry. “I just—well—”

“I pride myself on being irresistible,” Sam replied, pretty smugly, and pushed him further inside the hotel room, letting the door fall shut behind him. He leaned in, pressing him lightly against the wall, and said, “What’d you have in mind?”

Michael grinned and closed the distance between them, kissing him purposefully. Sam kissed back with enthusiasm, deepening it and pushing him more tightly against the wall. Sam’s chest against his was all hard muscle, pinning him in place, and he turned the kiss from merely passionate to _fuck, no wonder he’s smug_.

Michael groaned and shifted against him, and Sam pulled back, breathing heavily. It gave him the leverage he needed to push him back, toward the bed, and Sam grinned. “I underestimated you, Mike.”

He smirked. “Here’s your chance to make it up to me.”

\---

Radio silence. It set Michael’s teeth on edge, because Sam had been due to check in twenty minutes ago, and still nothing. Everything should have gone like clockwork. Everyone was in place. There was no room for error.

When the receiver in his hand crackled to life, Michael tensed, just slightly, and then relaxed as Sam’s voice filtered through. “I’m all right,” he said, but then there was a heavy, almost unnatural pause, and Michael tensed again. “But we miscalculated. We’re going to need another day to prepare. Hold down the fort ‘til then, huh, Michael? Over.”

Michael tensed even further, pressing the button and replying, “Roger. Out.” He took a deep breath. “They’ve got him. We’ve got to get a rescue mission in place.”

“What the hell are you talking about? How do you know that?” asked one of the guys who had been listening, a member of Sam’s team.

“He called me Michael. Have any of you ever heard him call me Michael before now?” he demanded, raising an eyebrow. “He’s in trouble. Let’s get going.”

\---

“I knew you’d get my message, Mikey,” Sam said, grinning ear to ear; he clapped him on the back as they rode away, shots ringing out over their heads.

Michael gave him an incredulous look. Only Sam could be so nonchalant amidst a hail of gunfire. “What the hell _happened_?” he demanded, jerking the wheel and sharply turning them left. “How did they get wind of this?”

Sam sighed. “One of our guys screwed up,” he said. “One of the kids who was part of the basic recon didn’t do as thorough a job as I would’ve liked. We walked into an ambush.”

And there it was, that hard spike of anger, burning through him. “You got caught and nearly killed because some _idiot_ didn’t do his job?” Another hard jerk of the wheel, another sharp turn, and it felt good, almost like he was taking his anger out on the barely-there road in front of them. “Who was it?”

Sam gave him a sidelong look. “I already dealt with him, Mikey—it’s been taken care of. Believe me, the kid is way more pissed at himself than you could ever be.”

“I doubt that, Sam,” Michael said darkly, because this, to him, was inexcusable. You did not fuck up and put a member of your team’s life in danger, and if you did, you damn well faced the consequences.

“Hey, Mike, I’m fine,” Sam said. “You’re pissed, I can see that—hell, I think a few long-dead Soviet spies could see that—but it’s not the kind of thing to get this worked up over. Mistakes happen. They get fixed. We move on.”

“Not when they almost cost _lives_ , Sam,” Michael bit out, slamming on the breaks to avoid a fallen tree. He quickly reversed, cutting down a road that looked more like a bike path. “ _Your_ life, I might point out.”

“You don’t have to point that out to me, Mike, I was there,” Sam said. “Listen. Almost is the operative word. We got out safely. That’s what’s important.”

“I just want to make sure it never happens again.” He leaned his head out of the way of some incoming brush, turning back onto the ‘main’ road. Not much of an improvement, but it helped.

“Of course it’s going to happen again,” Sam said bluntly. “That’s the job. There’s risk.”

“Not all risk is inevitable.”

“Human error is,” Sam said, firmly. “Let it go. I’m not telling you who it was, so how about we just concentrate on getting us back to camp in one piece, huh? There’s a beer or six calling my name. I can hear them now.”

Michael rolled his eyes, unable to hold in a snort. He could feel his anger ebbing away, like a pot of boiling water taken off the heat. “Fine,” he said at last. “We’re almost there. You better save one of those beers for me.”

Sam grinned at him. “That’s the spirit, Mikey.”

\---

It was somewhat disconcerting, working with both Larry and Sam at the same time.

The tension was almost as stifling as the humidity, and while nothing obvious had been said, it was obvious that they didn’t get along—yet even with that hanging over their heads, everything was still running smoothly.

Michael knew most of that was because they were both professionals, and damn good at what they did, but he couldn’t help but think at least part of the precarious civility was because of him.

“I’m about ready,” he told them. “I should be back in about an hour.”

“Remember,” Larry said, grinning and casually draping an arm around his shoulder. “Right now, it’s look, don’t touch. Don’t get spotted.”

“I know.” Michael smirked slightly up at him. “This is going to be a piece of cake.”

“Damn right.”

“Just be careful,” said Sam, and Michael noticed that he was eyeing them shrewdly, clearly trying to figure something out.

“Mother hen,” said Larry, under his breath. Sam obviously heard it too, because his jaw clenched.

“I’ll be fine. See you in an hour.”

\---

“You two are sleeping together, aren’t you?” Sam asked him, once Larry left to finish doing the perimeter check.

Michael looked up at him. He should have known, the three of them working together, that it wouldn’t stay a secret for long. “Yeah,” he said, for lack of anything better.

“For a while, right? Before we met?” he asked, and Michael nodded. He made a face. “You didn’t mention _that_.”

“Should I have?” Michael asked. “You and I aren’t exactly exclusive, Sam.”

“Not what I meant,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Just…watch out, huh, Mikey?”

Michael rolled his eyes. Sometimes he couldn’t help but feel that Larry wasn’t entirely off the mark with his mother hen comments. “I am. I’m fine, all right?”

“Mike…” Sam heaved a sigh. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, and I know you don’t really believe me, but Larry’s a bad guy. You might think he’s on your side, but you can’t trust him. He’s a psychopath, and above all, he cares about himself, no one else.”

“Larry has my back,” Michael said firmly. “And right now, he has yours too.”

“Mike. I’m being honest here. You’re smart, resourceful, and you’ve got one hell of a future in this business. He’s a bad influence, and he’ll drag you down to his level given half a chance. You’re above that. All I’m saying is watch out for it, huh?”

Part of him wanted to be angry, and he could feel that part start to burn, hot and steady, but something about the way Sam was looking at him made another part spring to life, a part telling him to shut it down. He waited a few moments before speaking. “I appreciate your concern,” he said at last, forcing his tone even, grounding himself. “I know Larry has his wilder moments. I know he’s manipulative. But he’s had my back more times than I can count, and he’s always come through when I needed him. I’m being careful. I’ll be fine.”

“All right. Fair enough,” Sam said, and they spent the next few minutes working in a somewhat heavy, if not quite awkward, silence. “At _least_ tell me he’s bad in the sack, though, yeah?” he asked eventually, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Michael suppressed a groan. “Sam...”

“C’mon, Mikey, give me that.”

Michael paused, then shrugged. “Sorry.”

Sam sighed, waving that away. “No, it’s okay. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—evil has that whole 'seductive' thing going for it—but still, my pride? I'll admit, it's a little wounded.”

“I never said it was a comparison,” Michael replied. “Believe me when I say that's...not possible.”

“Like comparing an apple and a hand grenade?” Sam smirked. “God, he’s got to be a kinky bastard.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Do you really want details?”

He made another face. “No. Jesus, way to kill my sex drive for life there, Mikey.”

“Somehow I expect you’ll bounce back,” Michael said dryly.

\---

“We have to at least—”

“No.” One word, said like iron, Sam’s usually easygoing demeanor replaced by a hard stare and a firmly-set jaw. “We’re leaving them out of this. They’re kids.”

“They’re seventeen,” Michael said. “I joined the Army at seventeen. Everything they’ve seen, they’ve had to grow up fast. They can handle this.”

“Yeah, and we’re not helping them grow up any faster.”

“This guy is going down one way or another, Sam.”

“How about we find the way that lets me sleep at night?” Sam asked. “I know you want to get him, Mike—so do I. But there’s a better way, a safer way.”

“We’ll be right there,” Michael protested. “It’s not going to be any more dangerous than—”

“You can’t guarantee that and you know it! What happens if one or both of them get hurt? Or killed? Do _you_ want to deliver that news to their mothers, because I sure as hell don’t.”

“One way or another,” Michael said, tone dark, “he’s going down.”

Sam met and held his gaze. He frowned deeply. “You’ve got to stop that,” he said. “That anger, some of it’s justified, but some of it’s just _destructive_. He’ll go down. But there are lines, Mike, lines you don’t ever cross, and you need to understand that.”

“The lines are blurred when it comes to guys like him,” Michael said, every muscle in his body feeling tense, like a rope pulled taut. “Sometimes you have to do bad things for good reasons.”

“But sometimes you don’t,” Sam countered. “It’s not always the only option, but it _should_ always be the _last_ option. I’m saying I think there’s a better way.”

Michael blew out a breath. If he were doing this job with Larry, they’d be halfway to finished by now. He could even hear Larry’s voice in his head, snorting and calling Sam a boy scout. Part of him agreed, his frustration running high, but this was Sam. Sam never wasted his time. “What’s the better way?” he asked, finally, and took a deep, calming breath. Some of the frustration and annoyance fell away.

“Give me a second to—oh!” He grinned suddenly. “Come on, Mikey, follow me.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at him. Sam didn’t say another word, simply turned around and started walking away.

Shaking his head, he followed anyway.

\---

Throughout his years as a spy, Sam remained one of the few people he could consistently count on. It hadn’t been much of a surprise when that continued even long after he was burned.

He’d always defied classification.

 

  
**iii.**   


When Sam heard the news, his first thought was of Mike.

Okay, no, that was a lie.

His first thought was, _Halle-freakin’-lujah. Ding dong, the bastard’s dead._

His _second_ thought was of Mike. He knew the news would be all over their little camp, and he figured it’d be best if it came from him, so he headed to find him. Unfortunately, he didn’t quite get to him in time to be the one to break the news.

“You hear who finally bought it?” one of the other guys on their team was saying, while Mikey obviously only half-listened, much more focused on the bug he was making than anything else. He allowed himself a small smile—that was Mike. “That creepy motherfucker. Larry—whatshisname—Sizemore? Walked right into an oil refinery just before it went boom, bunch of people saw. I guess evil doesn’t live forever, huh?”

Mike tensed, barely. It was so subtle even Sam almost didn’t notice. “Excuse me,” he said tightly, taking his work with him and walking away.

The guy looked up and saw him, frowning. “What’s wrong with him?”

Sam sighed, shaking his head.

\---

He didn’t have to worry about Mike on the mission, he knew that much—and it went as smoothly as it ever did, trying to con a bunch of crazy people.

Afterward, though, Sam still wanted to talk to Mike, and he figured Mike probably needed him to, whether he knew it or not. Because Sam might think it was weird, and he might not understand it, but Mike and Larry had had that strange little bond going on. He was probably taking the news hard. It was tough to hear that a friend died, even if that friend was a raving psychopath.

He found him by himself, seemingly staring off into space, although Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d actually snuck up on Mike.

“Need a drink?” he asked him.

“No.”

“You okay?”

Mike lifted his head to look at him; his smile was humorless. “What do you think?”

“I think you need a drink.” He pushed over a beer. Mike only looked at it.

“I know you hated him. You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do. You’re my buddy.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He didn’t say anything for a long few minutes. Finally, he spoke. “I know Larry was fucked up, lately especially,” he said, meeting his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t...I always knew where I stood with him. Who I was.”

There were a lot of things Sam could say to that: namely, that Larry was a manipulative psychopath who was great at getting people to believe whatever the hell he wanted them to believe, that Mike was worth ten of him, easy, and that he’d be way better off with the bastard dead—but he didn’t. Instead, he shrugged and said, “I think you’re one of the few people Larry actually liked, Mikey. That’s something.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say, because Mike snorted and actually picked up his beer, taking a drink.

It was a start, Sam thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

“I think you have something that belongs to me,” she said, the barest hint of a knowing smile at her mouth.

“I think the CEO of that company back there _might_ disagree,” he said, sizing up the situation. He was bigger than her, and would probably be able to overpower her in a physical confrontation, should that happen. Then again, she might be armed, or she might have backup on the way.

 _People who underestimate when they shouldn’t, well_ , said the voice of a ghost in his head, _they don’t last too long, now do they?_

Michael kept up his guard, surreptitiously noting that there were two possible exits he could take. The woman merely smiled at him, this time more widely. “Anyone ever tell you it might do you some good to relax a little?”

“Once or twice,” he said, and she grinned, moving toward him, and he tensed.

“See, that’s exactly what I mean,” she said, holding out a gloved hand. “Nice to meet you, handsome stranger. My name’s Samantha.” She smirked. “I’m a thief.”

A bunch of possible responses flitted through his mind before he settled on the best approach. “Michael,” he answered, shaking her hand. “I’m a spy.”

She grinned again. “Cool.”

\---

“That’s confidential,” Samantha told him, when he asked what she was working on. It made him grin, because the next words out of her mouth were, “What about you?” and his answer was always the same.

“That’s classified,” he said, and she grinned back.

They shared a look like they were the only two people in the world who understood.

\---

Everything about Samantha was graceful and effortless, Michael noticed.

It was there in the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she planned her jobs right down to the last detail, the way she arched into his touch, the way she kissed him. He wasn’t sure how she did it, every time, at the drop of the hat, like it was easy.

Even, for instance, in situations like _this_ , when they were literally running for their lives. “What happened with the alarm?” he asked as they ran down the broken sidewalk, dodging various obstacles—trash cans, parking meters, even the occasional pedestrian.

“They had a _third_ backup, can you believe it?” she said, a little breathless, and still she grinned at him, bright-eyed and enthusiastic. “I’m kind of impressed, I have to admit.”

“We scouted them for a _week_ ,” he muttered, shaking his head, and they ducked behind a building. “How did we miss this?”

“It was seriously well hidden. No way to tell until you’d tripped it,” she said, and gave him a knowing look. “No one keeps a third security backup to protect some diamonds, Michael. What were we _really_ after?”

He winced. “Sorry, Sam.”

She laughed. “I know, I know, it’s classified,” she said. “All right. Well, our pursuers are probably hot on our tails, so I think the plan right now needs to be: split up and meet in the usual spot. I hope you’re ready for a sprint, Michael, because you’re about to enjoy one either way.” She winked. “I’ll see you for dinner. You owe me a bottle of wine!” She ran left, and he watched her draw some of the men after her.

Shaking his head, he ran right, drawing his own share of pursuers.

It was times like these that she reminded him of Sam.

\---

Michael watched as Samantha charmed their waiter, a guy in his late thirties—decent-looking, but in an awkward way, not to mention clearly insecure, and a little bit starved for attention—and he could see, point by point, where she won him over, where her persona shifted to accommodate him, to make him feel more at ease. It was kind of impressive, that persona, and he realized that even he would have some trouble figuring out exactly where it ended.

“You seem pensive,” Samantha commented, once the waiter left them to fetch another bottle of wine. She raised an eyebrow in question, picking up her glass to finish it off, and Michael merely shrugged. It made her smirk at him. “Don’t tell me you were jealous, Michael.”

He snorted. “Do you really think I am?” He shook his head. “I was just…watching you work, Sam. You’re good at it.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise,” she said dryly. “I thought you knew that by now.”

“Definitely not a surprise,” he said. “Interesting, but not surprising.”

“Interesting, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, what did you think you’d end up doing? When you were younger?” he asked, suddenly, and it obviously surprised her. Hell, he was kind of surprised at himself for even asking the question. “It wasn’t this, obviously. Though I guess that would’ve made for an interesting career day.”

“I—am not sure, actually,” she said, faltering slightly, and he thought that it was maybe the first time he’d ever seen her falter, seen her as anything other than practiced and smooth. She smiled quickly, adding, “I don’t really remember. Probably something ordinary. One of those run of the mill things all kids say they want to be. Doctor, lawyer, astronaut. The stuff you never take seriously.”

It was a deflection, and not even a particularly subtle one, but he let it pass. “Yeah, sure. After all, who really knows what they want to be when they’re eight?” At that age, the only thing he’d known for sure was 'not his father.'

“Exactly.” She smiled, giving him a curious look. “Any reason you asked?”

“No,” he said. “Just thinking out loud, that’s all.” He shrugged. “Do you ever think about it? How you ended up here?”

“How did I end up here? Let’s see.” She smirked. “A handsome stranger got himself mixed up in a job I was doing, totally ruined it, but it turned out I liked him better than my client anyway, so things worked out in the end.”

He snorted. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Michael, but where’s the fun in spilling _all_ your secrets?” she asked, giving him a knowing look. “Don’t you have a tiny piece of information or two about yourself or your past that you’ve kept to yourself?”

He thought about his family, about Andre, Larry, and Sam—and he thought about what her reaction might be, if he told her about that. Would she care? Would it end their relationship? Would it make any difference at all? “My life’s an open book,” he deadpanned, because she wasn’t the only one who could deflect questions that were easier left unanswered.

She laughed. “Is it now?” Smirking mischievously, once again the essence of effortless grace, she leaned in. “Then tell me. Did you know you wanted to be a superspy when you were a little boy?”

“Don’t most little boys want to be secret agents when they grow up?” he asked, dryly.

“And some little girls,” she agreed, grinning.

That was when he realized: where it counted, Samantha and Sam couldn’t be more different.

\---

“I’m going to have to cancel our date,” said Michael into his phone, quietly, rolling his eyes as he crouched behind the building. The guys passed right by him, unaware. “Something came up.”

“Couldn’t get away from work, honey?” she asked, and he could hear the teasing grin in her voice.

“Something like that.”

“Tsk. You know what your doctor said about overworking,” she continued, and he snorted. “Well, you’ll just have to make it up to me some other time, won’t you?”

“Count on it,” he said, and shaking his head, he hung up.

\---

“We should get married,” she said, leaning back against the headboard, bottle of wine in her hand. Dawn peeked in through the curtains after a night spent planning a basic retrieval operation— _a heist_ , according to Samantha, a cheeky grin around the words every time she said them. It was a pretty simple job, well beneath his skills, but he’d volunteered for it knowing she would also be in town, that they could do it together.

He stared at her. “How would _that_ work?”

She grinned, warm and irresistible, and absently adjusted the way his shirt draped around her. “You should see your expression right now,” she said. “Relax, Michael, I’m not suggesting we get a house, a dog, and a white picket fence in the suburbs—” she stopped suddenly and bit her lip, obviously amused, “though, I have to admit, the mental image of Michael Westen, leader of the neighborhood watch, is definitely one I’m going to treasure.” She laughed when he made a face. “Seriously, though, I don’t think it’d change much. It’d work exactly like it does now, just with wedding rings. Of course, strictly speaking, those are optional.”

“You want to get married?”

She shrugged, drinking from the bottle. “I think it’s rare to meet someone who really _gets it_ , you know?” she said. “That’s the kind of thing it’s important to hold onto, in my experience.”

“You have a point,” he admitted, and she did. He’d never actually seriously considered the idea that he might get married one day. With his job, it had seemed, at best, far-fetched, and, at worst, completely impossible. Could it work?

“You can think about it,” Samantha said. “I mean, I have been for a while, so it’s only fair. It’s just something I wanted to bring up.”

After a moment, he nodded. “I will.”

\---

The problem with constant travel, Michael reflected, was that you didn’t regularly have contact with people you might be able to talk to about certain things.

Granted, in Michael’s case, that list was pretty short anyway—it pretty much entirely consisted of Sam—but the job definitely didn’t make it any easier.

Sam’s perspective would be helpful on this, he thought, because he wasn’t sure _what_ to think.

Marriage seemed like a pipe dream, honestly. Could he really expect to make it work? Sure, he and Samantha did mesh well, and they’d never had any problems. She understood about his job, just like he understood about hers. Maybe, for him, that really was the best he could hope for. Maybe he should accept that and agree.

Or maybe, deep down, he wanted more. And maybe, deep down, he was utterly kidding himself.

There was something about those _maybes_ that kept holding him back.

\---

She grinned and pushed him hard up against the wall as soon as they were in the hotel room. “I never get used to that. Do you?” she said, and kissed him passionately.

“Never.” His hands went to her back, sliding down the zipper on her dress. She pulled back just long enough to shimmy out of it, then kissed him again, hands rapidly unbuttoning his shirt as she dragged him toward the bed.

“You were incredible,” she murmured in his ear, and he grinned.

“So were you,” he said, touching her, every inch of her, wherever he could reach. It seemed like he could never get enough of her, warm and smooth under his hands, could never get enough of making her gasp and press into his touch, wordlessly asking for more.

He’d _never_ get tired of this feeling, the high of a job well done and celebrating with someone who got it, who _understood._

She slid his shirt off and pulled his undershirt up over his head, and then she pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him. She ground against him, making him groan and arch against her, and then she leaned in, kissing him again. This kiss was long and sweet and slow, the essence of celebration, and when she pulled back, she had a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Sam,” he said, breathless, struck by the sight. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

Her eyebrows rose, apparently momentarily caught off guard, but then she smiled. “You’re sure?”

“It makes sense,” he said, and in that moment, he meant every word.

\---

He’d been looking forward to the quick-and-dirty ceremony they had planned next time they both had an extended stay in the same country. He’d made up his mind that this was the best possible outcome for him. He was sure they could make it work.

Then he met Fiona, and there was simply no looking back.

 

  
**iv.**   


Seeing Michael again, a decade later, was one hell of an experience.

She’d obviously shaken things up, what with Fiona’s reaction. Honestly, that wasn’t a surprise—Michael was very good at keeping things close to the vest, after all. Her shock and anger made sense, as did the mild jealousy. Samantha couldn’t begrudge her any of that.

Besides, she’d helped in getting Charlie back without any hesitation, and for that, she’d always be grateful.

His mom’s reaction hadn’t been much more unexpected. Michael had barely mentioned his family when they were together, so why would she expect him to mention her to them? Hell, it wasn’t like they’d been together all that long, and it certainly wasn’t like she’d known him all that well. She realized that now. At the time, she’d thought they’d had an understanding, a certain common ground, thanks to their mutually duplicitous careers. She’d thought they fit, that they made a perfect, if weird, sort of sense.

She was proud, sure, but she liked to think she could admit when she was wrong, at least to herself.

The only reaction she hadn’t been expecting was Sam’s, and there she couldn’t even place what exactly his reaction had been. She’d noticed their exchanged, communicative looks, occasionally, ones that she couldn’t quite decipher, and the way he danced at the edges around Michael and Fiona. It was interesting. He was simultaneously a part of their rhythm and not, and the easy, almost effortless way he seemed to get along with Michael reminded her of the year or so that they’d been together.

Except for those looks, that was. Those looks, she knew, indicated that Sam really _did_ know Michael, far better than she ever had.

Those looks made her wonder. Friendship was one thing, even best friendship, but to her eye, those looks held something more.

The idea was interesting to consider. Michael hadn’t ever mentioned swinging that way, but she had caught his eye wandering once or twice. At the time, she’d dismissed it as sizing up a possible enemy, or maybe even competition, but now she wasn’t so sure. Michael and Sam could have had a thing at some point, probably before either she or Fiona had even met him.

If that were true, she wondered if Fiona knew. It was hard to admit, even in her head, but she suspected the answer was yes. And, if not, she was suddenly certain that Fiona knew more concretely whether or not it was a possibility.

Now here she was, surprising _herself_ with how much that suddenly hurt.

She shook her head, because it was ridiculous. She and Michael were over, long over, and besides, it wasn’t like she had any particular _right_ to know. They hadn’t demanded much of each other, her and Michael, so it wasn’t even like she could have expected to, either.

If it was true, though, she thought Fiona, at least, probably deserved to know—if only because of those looks. Something about them had suggested _unfinished business_ , and if anyone knew a thing or two about unfinished business, it was Samantha Keyes.

 _Ah, well_ , she thought, and glanced over at Charlie, dozing peacefully in the passenger seat. _C’est la vie._


	5. Chapter 5

  
**V.**   


Michael was pretty sure that he hated Michael McBride.

McBride was the one who’d met Fiona. McBride was the one she identified with, the one she trusted. McBride was the one she was obviously falling in love with.

McBride was not the one falling, hard and fast, right back.

\---

“That was _fun_ ,” Fi was saying, grinning widely, as they made their way inside the run-down little apartment he’d been using for this operation. “All those pretty little guns going to a much better home…”

He snorted, but truth be told, he enjoyed her enthusiasm. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” he said.

“Obviously,” she said, smirking, and opened his refrigerator. Tsking, she said, “You have exactly four eggs and two peppers in here.”

“There should be some yogurt, too,” he said, joining her at the fridge door. “Yeah, see? Right there. And there’s some cheese, and even a little milk. It’s practically fully stocked.”

She sent him a look. “We have got to expand your horizons.”

“Hey, I’m a decent cook,” he said.

Laughing, she said, “Oh? Prove it, McBride.”

Ignoring the stab in his gut, he grinned at her, and set about making her an omelet.

\---

For all the curiosity and glamour surrounding spies and sex, Michael was fairly confident that it didn’t happen as often as most people assumed.

 _Seduction_ was one thing, the art of getting people to the point where they might _want_ to sleep with you—or help you out in other ways, which was often more valuable—but actually having sex was a completely different thing, and it had never been one of his preferred tactics. Too much was up in the air. Too much could go wrong. It left you vulnerable, and vulnerability wasn’t useful in this business.

It could also complicate matters—though, granted, in this particular situation, he’d already complicated it. When he looked at Fiona, he didn’t think _asset_ , he thought _friend_ , and that was dangerous, not least because she didn’t even know his real name.

“Beautiful,” Fi said, voice breathy and light, as she put the finishing touches on the bomb she was assembling.

He would’ve agreed, because he could appreciate a job well done, and Fiona was nothing if not good at what she did. At the moment, however, he was more caught up in the way she looked when she was truly concentrating on something, from the laser-light focus of her eyes, to the way her tongue peeked out of her mouth, to the way every part of her seemed to be humming.

“Yes,” he said, belatedly, and she looked up, gracing him with a brilliant smile.

This was bad on any number of many levels. This wasn’t like Larry, or Sam, or even Samantha. Fiona thought he was Michael McBride, born in Kilkenny, with a past very similar to her own.

“Are you talking about me or the bomb?” she asked, amused. “Not that you’re wrong on either count.”

“You do excellent work,” he said, in lieu of answering, and she snorted.

“I know,” she said, leaning in. “But I happen to think it’s not just my work you’re admiring.”

He played dumb. “I didn’t mean to—”

“How are you this oblivious?” she demanded, and pulled him in for a rough kiss.

He pulled away, a beat too late, and said, “I’m not sure we should—”

“Oh,” she said. “Not oblivious. It’s something else. Do you have a girlfriend?” He was about to run with the lie, because it gave him a perfect out, when she laughed. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t have a girlfriend. You don’t act like it. So what’s the problem, McBride? Don’t think you can keep up with me?” She smirked. “You probably can’t, but that’s no reason not to try.”

“We work together,” he said. “It could get messy.”

“Yeah, but getting messy can be fun,” she said, grinning irresistibly.

“ _Not_ if it results in you shooting me,” he said, and she laughed.

“So don’t give me a reason to shoot you,” she said innocently. “Simple.”

“That was reassuring.”

“You were expecting _reassuring_?”

“Momentary lapse,” he said, and she sidled closer to him.

“So how about we plant this little work of art,” she murmured in his ear, “watch it go boom, finish our job, and then come back here and celebrate a job well done?”

Everything in his head was telling him it was a bad idea. He wasn’t in control of this situation. This wasn’t calculated. It wouldn’t gain him a damn thing.

“It’s a date,” he said instead, and kissed her again, pulling her close.

\---

Getting his cover blown was never fun. Getting his cover blown with Fi, by _Sam_ of all people, was nigh unbearable.

“ _Westen_?” she said, hurt and betrayal written all over her face. “Who the _hell_ are you?”

“I—I’m CIA,” he said, and Sam looked between them, apparently discerning everything with a glance, because he left them to it without a word.

She made a low noise, almost a growl, and she said, “You’ve been lying to me all this time. About _everything_? For what? So I would help you and your government in some _stupid_ little power play?”

“It’s not like that, Fi,” he said, and she physically stepped away from him at the use of her name, almost like he’d slapped her.

“Don’t you say another word to me,” she said. “Don’t you fucking _look_ at me again, or I will—I don’t know _what_ I’ll do. I never want to see your face again.”

“Let me—”

“No.” Her eyes were full of cold fury, her jaw firmly clenched. “You go straight to _hell_.”

\---

“Fi, it’s me,” he called from her kitchen, the second he heard the door open.

She appeared almost instantly, gun drawn and trained on him. “I told you to stay the hell away from me, Michael _Westen_ ,” she snapped, and he held up his hands. “Get out.”

“I just want to talk.”

“Maybe I don’t want to listen.”

“Fi—”

“Don’t.” She narrowed his eyes. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words felt foreign and awkward in his mouth, not to mention hollow. “I am. Not everything—the way we work together, that’s real. The way I feel about you—”

“Leave me alone,” she interrupted, tone sharp.

“Just let me explain.”

She snorted. “Why should I?”

“Because I—I still care about you!”

“And why the _hell_ should I believe you?”

“Dammit, Fi,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, okay? But—”

She snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong, Michael. It’s not complicated. It’s really fucking simple. You lied to me. How do you _ever_ expect me to trust you again?”

“I haven’t let you down until now,” he said. “You _can_ trust me. Let me prove it to you.”

“Prove it to me? How do you think you’ll do that?”

“Anyway you want,” he said, before he could think about it for too long.

She eyed him for what felt like eons. Then, slowly, she lowered her weapon. “So help me God, Michael,” she said, giving him a warning look, “if you make me regret this, I _will_ shoot you.”

He nodded, knowing she was deadly serious.

“And I’m not letting you off easy,” she continued. “You want to prove it to me? I’m making you work for it. You’d better deliver.”

“I will,” he said.

“Good. Let’s start now,” she said, sitting down at her kitchen table. “Tell me one completely true thing about you.” She set the gun down, and he eyed it. Rolling her eyes, she unloaded it and began to strip it, almost idly.

“What kind of thing?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

“Something not everybody knows,” she said. “I don’t care about your favorite color. I want to know about _you_ , about the man I’ve—the man I’ve been spending so much time with. We’re starting over.”

He thought for a moment, not sure where or how to begin, but also willing to try.

“I joined the Army at seventeen,” he said, eventually, haltingly, and she nodded, now idly inspecting each component of the gun.

“That’s a start,” she said, and glanced up at him, meeting his eyes. “Tell me more about what you do.”

“A lot of it’s classified,” he said, looking apologetic, and she narrowed her eyes.

“I’m sure that’s convenient for you, isn’t it?” she asked. “You get to hide behind ‘it’s classified’ and no one ever gets to know who the hell you really are, is that it?” She shook her head. “I don’t want launch sequences, M—Westen. I want to know my opinion of you wasn’t _so_ far off base, but as of now, I’ve got no reason to believe that. Give me a reason.” She held his gaze.

“I serve my country,” he said then, after a pause. “In a way not many people can. It’s not about me. It’s about _everyone_. It’s important work. It helps people.”

“That’s why you do what you do?” she asked. “Simple patriotism?”

“It’s not patriotism,” he corrected. “Or at least not just that. It’s feeling like you’re…like you’re a part of something bigger, something that connects you to…” he trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

She didn’t reply, or demand that he finish, apparently focused on reassembling the gun in front of her. Michael knew her well enough to know that she could do it in her sleep. She was thinking.

“I understand that,” she said, finally, and looked up again. “You need to know that there’s something more than just…you. That there’s a point to the world. That things happen for a reason.”

He swallowed, and tried to say yes, but the most he could manage was a nod.

\---

“You knew that was going to happen!” she shouted, voice carrying, and he winced.

“Fi,” he muttered, and the muscles in her jaw clenched, but when she spoke again, her voice was much more subdued.

“You knew it was going to happen, Michael, didn’t you? The plan to get us out of there, that couldn’t have been set up on a whim—”

“I had an idea that it could’ve happened,” he admitted. “I didn’t know for sure.”

“And you didn’t _tell me_ ,” she spit out the words, eyes blazing.

“It was—”

“If you tell me ‘need to know’, Michael, I swear to God, you’re going to regret it.”

“What do you want me to say, Fi?” he demanded. “That’s the job. I can’t tell you everything.”

“It’s not that you _can’t_ , Michael,” she said. “It’s that you _won’t_. You could have given me a heads up, but you didn’t, because you keep everything bottled up inside that impossible head of yours, and you expect me to trust you anyway.”

“You have to understand—”

“Oh, I _understand_ ,” she said. “You have a perfect out, any time you get uncomfortable. You hide behind ‘need to know’ and ‘it’s classified’ and you say _that’s the job_ and expect me to accept it.” She snorted, shaking her head. “Well, you know what? I don’t accept it, Michael. I need more from you than just the bits and pieces you’re willing to give.”

“I can’t share everything!” he exclaimed, frustrated, willing her to understand. “Maybe, _maybe_ I’ve been overcautious—”

“ _Maybe_?”

“—but it’s for your own safety! In some situations, the less you know, the better!”

“Let’s get one thing clear right now, _Michael Westen_ ,” she snarled, and pressed right up against him. “That will _never_ be true, do you understand me? If you trust me, then you trust me, but if you _don’t_ , then don’t waste my time!”

“Of course I trust you!”

“Prove it!”

“I have!”

She laughed, a coarse, bitter sound. “The sad thing is that you really believe that, don’t you?”

And suddenly, all the anger and frustration fell away, and he felt tired, and utterly drained. “You’re important to me, Fi,” he said. “I trust you. I _do_.”

She slapped him, making his ears ring, and then she kissed him, hard and desperate, and when they broke apart she whispered, “I don’t know if that’s true.”

He kissed her back, trying to make it clear that it was, and not sure that he succeeded.

\---

“Sometimes I wonder,” Fi said, and stopped.

When she didn’t continue after a few seconds, Michael looked up from the listening device he was making. “Sometimes you wonder?”

“If most of the choices I’ve made are…” she said, and shook her head. “I don’t know. Decent, I suppose.”

Michael didn’t know what to say to that. He opened his mouth and shut it again, watching her face.

She merely smiled at him. “You don’t have to be _reassuring_ , Michael,” she said. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, associated with people whose tactics are abhorrent, and I’ll always live with that. I just hope that those things haven’t been in…vain. That there’s enough to balance it out.”

“There is,” he said, instantly, and with conviction. Of that he was sure.

She smiled again, this time with a touch of sadness. “You sound so sure.”

“There are a few things I’m sure about,” he said. “Not a lot, but this is one of them.”

“What else are you sure about?” she asked, curious, her gaze just this side of piercing.

“My job,” he said. “That it’s a good thing, in the end.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Is that it? Tell me you’re sure about more than just this and your _job_ , Michael.”

He shrugged. “Is certainty that important?”

“Not with you, I suppose,” she said, snorting, and it made his hackles rise.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fi snorted again. “It means just what you think it means. You live your life in these vague little grey areas, Michael, and you expect everyone else to be as comfortable with them as you are. Some of us prefer a little more reliability.”

“I’m reliable,” he said, firmly. “Where it counts.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“I _am_ ,” he insisted, and she sighed.

“I don’t want to fight right now, Michael—I know, it’s a shock.” She said this dryly, and it surprised a soft snort from him. “I do trust you. I’ve trusted you from the beginning, and I hated myself for it, because you hadn’t really earned it, and then when I found out about, well—it’s very annoying when part of your own mind is telling you _I told you so_.” She shook her head. “And I even forgave you, which I probably shouldn’t have, and I trust you _again_ , and part of me is waiting for the next stone to fall, because part of me is convinced that I’ll regret it again.”

He watched her, quietly, trying to conjure up the words to reassure her, but only coming up empty. “I—Fi—”

“You’re so bad at this,” she said, laughing.

“I’m less bad at it with you,” he offered, and she smiled, not quite happily, but not nearly as sadly as before.

\---

He knew, even before he got the communication from his handler, that his cover was in trouble.

He’d spent much longer in Ireland than intended, and it hadn’t been built to last, the McBride cover. He knew, eventually, it’d catch up to him.

As it was, some of his old associates had blown into town, and now he was in a precarious position. If the people he and Fi had been working with found out about this, it wouldn’t just be his ass on the line. Fi would be in danger too.

The CIA was insisting that he be pulled out. For now, he was resisting, but he also knew that he couldn’t do that forever.

He sighed heavily, watching as Fi slept next to him, and wondered how the hell he was going to tell her.

\---

This was it. He had to say goodbye. He’d be leaving tonight, and there was no way to avoid it, not any longer. He couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Fi,” he said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

She looked up, her expression curious, and when he didn’t say anything else for a long moment, she said, “What is it, Michael?”

 _I have to leave_ , he said in his mind, and tried to get his mouth to form the words. “I—” He faltered, annoyed at himself, and she arched an eyebrow.

“This must be serious,” she said. “You only ever hesitate this much when you’re trying to be honest about something.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not that bad.”

“Okay.” She looked amused, but unconvinced.

“It’s just—I don’t know how you’ll react,” he said, slowly.

“That makes me think it’s bad news,” she said, looking at him shrewdly. “What is it?”

“I—” he started, and he was sure the next words out of his mouth would be _have to leave_ , but instead he found himself blurting, “I’m bisexual.”

She blinked, looking surprised, and then said, “Huh.” Shrugging, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Well, for the record, I don’t care. One of my brothers is gay.”

Distracted, he gave her surprised look. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a bit of an open secret,” she said.

He sat down next to her, considering that, and it made him realize something. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve told.”

It was true, in a strange way. With Andre, Larry, and Sam, it’d just been unspoken, and he never mentioned it to Samantha.

She smiled warmly at him, leaning in and kissing him, and when they broke apart, he looked into her eyes. “Fi,” he said again, because he really ought to tell her what he’d meant to tell her from the beginning, that he was leaving, that he had no idea when he’d seen her again, if ever.

She just kept looking at him, expectant and curious, and all he could do was shake his head and kiss her again, passionate and searching, trying to pour into it everything that he couldn’t say.

\---

Leaving Fi behind in Ireland was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

It almost wasn’t a surprise when, years later, she came crashing headfirst back into his life.

After all, that was Fi.

 

  
**v.**   


“Fi,” Michael had started, saying her name in an odd tone—for the second time that night. The first time had resulted in a new piece of information about him, which, in hindsight, really should have made her suspicious, but his revelation had distracted her. It’d played so neatly into that little bit of hope she still held onto, so she’d given him yet another expectant, curious look.

This time, he hadn’t continued with anything more. He’d merely shaken his head and kissed her passionately, almost desperately, like he was trying to convey every single emotion he felt but couldn’t vocalize.

She’d given into it, like she always did with Michael, because being with him was like falling rapidly into darkness, exciting and unknown. You couldn’t see three inches in front of you, nothing was certain, and you didn’t know how to get out—not that you wanted to, when it came right down to it.

She didn’t actually put it all together until a few days after she’d woken up and found him gone. The first night had been consumed by worry, the second night had been consumed by _fury_ , and then, finally, the third night had been resigned acceptance, and that was when she’d started thinking about it.

The whole thing had been a copout. He hadn’t even been able to say _goodbye_ , the bastard.

She wasn’t sure why that surprised her. Every little piece of Michael, every little bit, she’d had to draw out of him, to separate him from the McBride character she’d met him as.

She could admit to herself, but only to herself, that in some ways, she preferred McBride.

He’d been easier to get along with, that was for certain, but even as she thought it she knew it wasn’t really true. He’d been fun, yes, but superficial, a mere wisp of the true person underneath, and even if it took work getting to know that true person…

Fiona was pretty sure it was worth it. This did not mean she wouldn’t be kicking Michael’s arse the next time she saw him.

Of that she was sure. There was damn well going to be a next time.

\---

Clearly, someone had beaten her to kicking Michael’s arse. They’d done a pretty decent job of it, too.

She sunk into in the chair next to the bed and eyed him for a few minutes, watched the way his chest rose and fell in his sleep, somewhat ragged.

That was so like Michael, she thought, to not even be peaceful while sleeping. Though, she supposed, with those injuries, she couldn’t really blame him.

Glancing out the window, at the bright Miami scene before her, she shook her head. She was here, Michael was here, something dreadful had happened to him, and she had no idea what she was thinking, or what would happen this time.

Shrugging, she kicked at him, almost absently, trying to wake him up.

He sat up like a shot, startled eyes quickly focusing on her.

It was time to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

****

**VI.**

“Michael, I want to talk,” Fi said, and Michael had a hard time not letting his wary expression show.

He glanced at Sam, who shook his head, holding up his hands. “I’m gone,” he said, standing.

“No, Sam, sit back down. I might need to talk to you too.”

This time Sam glanced at him, as if to say, _What the hell did **I** do?_

Michael only shrugged. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked cautiously.

“Something Larry said to me,” she said, then shook her head. “No, more the way he said it. It made me curious. The two of you—when you worked together, I mean—were involved in some way, weren’t you, Michael? Some sort of liaison?”

Michael stared. Sam blew out a breath. “Oh boy,” he said, standing again. “If we’re talking about this, I’m getting a beer.”

“Then I am right,” she said as Sam pulled a beer out of the fridge. “And you knew, Sam?”

“Believe me, I wish I didn’t.”

“But of course you did—you knew Michael back then.”

“I knew Larry, too,” he said.

“Sam and Larry never got along,” said Michael absently.

“That’s because he’s a psychopath, Mikey.”

“Not arguing with you, Sam.” Michael shook his head. “I didn’t know the full extent of…Larry, back then. He seemed…saner.”

“Which still isn’t saying a lot,” Sam muttered.

Fi looked at him expectantly, clearly wanting him to go on. “I did know enough, though. I even knew he was manipulating me to a certain degree. I just didn’t care.”

“And Larry’s always been obsessed with Mike.”

“I wouldn’t say obsessed with—”

“I would. You never saw how possessive he’d get when you weren’t around.”

“Possessive? Interesting,” said Fi, fixing Sam with an unreadable expression. It made Michael wary and it wasn’t even aimed at him.

“Uh, yeah, or creepy, that’s the word I’d use,” Sam said, not looking at her.

“I meant that he directed it at you,” she said. “Generally someone only does that toward a person they perceive as a threat.”

Sam sent him a look. Michael shrugged again.

“Yeah, I guess…” he said slowly.

“Were you?” she asked. Her expression seemed to be aiming for innocent, which he decided worked roughly as well as a gun with a disabled trigger assembly.

“Was I what?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A threat.” She smiled sweetly.

“Uh,” he said.

“Eloquent, Sam,” Michael muttered.

“You were, weren’t you?” Fi asked, smirking. “You and Michael slept together.”

“To be fair, in those days, I slept with everyone,” Sam protested, and Michael snorted. That was true enough. “It wasn’t anything serious.”

She looked at him. Michael shrugged. “He’s right. It only happened, what, three times? Four?”

“Something like that.”

“Interesting,” she said again, clasping her hands together thoughtfully. “Do you miss it?”

Sam choked on his beer. Michael was just glad _he_ hadn’t been drinking anything.

“What?” Sam asked, just half a second before he did.

“You heard me. Do you miss it? Have you been tempted?” She leaned in. “Or even given into temptation?”

“We haven’t—” Michael started, but stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence. Slept together since he came to Miami? That was true enough. Thought about it again? That was less true, at least on his end.

“We haven’t?” Fi prompted, looking interested.

“Given into anything. If there’s even anything to give into.”

He looked at the floor. It was better than trying to look at either Sam or Fi.

“Of course there is,” Fi said, sounding absurdly practical for what they were discussing. “Two reasonably healthy, reasonably attractive men who have a history, working in close proximity with one another? There’s _something_ there to give into, Michael. The point of this discussion is to figure out exactly what.”

“Fi, seriously, what are you getting at here?” Sam asked, and Michael chanced a glance up. “Are you trying to get us to admit something? We had a fling back in the day. Mike’s a good-looking guy. Maybe if you two weren’t in…whatever relationship limbo you’re in, I’d have made another play, but I won’t knowingly come between a couple. That’s all there is to it.”

Fi smiled. It reminded Michael of a shark. “Excellent, Sam. That’s all I wanted to know from you,” she said. “Now you, Michael. Would you have been receptive to Sam, had he, as he put it, made a play?”

Michael glanced at Sam for help, but he shrugged, the essence of, _Sorry, buddy, you’re on your own._

“Yes,” he said at last. When all else failed, he might as well be honest. “If not for you, Fi.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, nodding to herself. “You both are idiots.”

“What?” asked Sam.

“I expect this from Michael, Sam—if he isn’t sacrificing something, he assumes he’s doing something wrong—but I always thought you were more practical about matters like these.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to _choose_ , Michael. Not when I’m perfectly willing to share.”

“What?” That time, it was him.

“Maybe it _was_ something Larry said,” she replied, shrugging. “But it made me start thinking about who you are, what you need, and I think I’ve figured it out. I think you need both of us.” She looked at Sam. “What do you think, Sam? Will you come between a couple if you’re given permission?” She smirked. “In other words, how good are you at sharing?”

Sam looked thoughtful. “I’ve been known to share pretty well,” he said slowly.

Michael glanced between them. “Is this really happening?” he actually said aloud before he could stop himself.

“It’s up to you,” she pointed out, far too reasonably.

“I don’t—” He realized he had no idea what to say. “How would this even _work_?”

“Gee, Mikey, has it been that long?” Sam asked, smirking faintly.

“That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“You could always remind him, Sam,” Fi said, once again using her entirely ineffective innocent expression.

“I could,” he agreed, setting down his beer and standing up.

“Sam—” That was as far as he got before Sam pressed him up against the workbench, kissing him hard.

Sam’s joke aside, it actually had been several years since he’d last kissed another guy—the last time had been with someone whose name he didn’t even remember, a meaningless night not long after his cover had been blown in Ireland and he’d had to leave Fi.

It’d been considerably longer since he’d last kissed _Sam_.

Yet here he was, seamlessly re-adjusting to the feel of Sam’s stubble against his cheek, the way his weight held him in place, his sheer _presence_. It was a hell of a lot easier than he might want to admit—a hell of a lot more comfortable. He deepened the kiss.

That had always thrown him off with Sam, how easily they fit together. Back then it’d seemed almost _too_ easy, but with Fi in the mix too…maybe there was something to this.

Thinking of Fi made him break the kiss, taking a deep breath. He glanced over Sam’s shoulder to see her grinning widely, obviously pleased with herself. “Is that better, Michael?” she asked him. He really had to ask her why she even tried with that innocent expression. “I’ll let you boys get reacquainted for now, but I _will_ be back later.” Her tone held a promise—or maybe a threat? It was pretty hard to tell with Fi. “Have fun.” She left.

Michael looked at Sam and shook his head. “Did you see that coming at all?”

“Like hell,” he said, but he grinned in a way that Michael decided still qualified as rakish. “But I can’t say I’m complaining. Are you?”

“No,” he said, smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not.”

\---

“It’s all right to admit you can’t keep up, Sam,” Fi was saying, and Michael tried not to roll his eyes. “No one will think any less of you. How could we? Our opinions are already so low.”

“Like I’d ever give you the satisfaction,” Sam replied. They both walked into the loft. “I can match you beat for beat and not even break a sweat.”

Fi laughed. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself.”

“Here, Mikey,” Sam said, handing over a piece of paper with the information they’d gone to retrieve. “Easy peasy.”

“Does it help to lie to yourself?”

“I’ll have you know I could do that _again_. In fact, I’m raring to go, ready for action.”

“Prove it.”

“Maybe I will.”

Michael was trying to decipher Sam’s handwriting and didn’t notice the odd silence that settled over the room until it was almost too late. He glanced up to see Fi and Sam eyeing him and each other.

“Let Mikey be the judge,” Sam said, obviously a challenge.

Fi crossed her arms. “You’re sure you won’t be too upset when you lose?”

“Put your money where your mouth is, lady.”

“Michael would probably prefer I put my mouth somewhere else.”

“You’re on.”

“Guys, what’s going—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Sam had him backed up against the workbench and was kissing him hard in seconds flat.

When they broke apart, Fi was clapping slowly. “Not bad,” she said, grinning wickedly, “but I can do better.” The second part of her sentence was almost a sing-song.

She sauntered over and hoisted herself up onto the workbench, pushing lightly at Sam’s chest so he took a step back, squirming in between them and kissing him roughly, all passion and heat.

“Guys?” he said, a little breathless, once Fi pulled away. Sam was still close enough to touch.

“Cute,” said Sam. “Very cute.”

“ _Cute_?” She deliberately groped Michael, making him groan. “Call _that_ cute.”

“Fiona!” he managed.

“Yes, Michael?” she asked sweetly.

“ _What_ is going on?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Mikey?” Sam said, shifting Fi to the side so he could get closer. “Fi threw down the gauntlet. I have to respond.”

“ _This_ is how you respond?”

“No, this is.” He gripped the back of his neck and drew him in, crushing their mouths together.

He heard Fi laugh; when she groped him again, he groaned into the kiss. “Come on, Sam,” she said, jumping off the workbench. “Let’s get him to the bed.”

Sam broke the kiss and slipped an arm around his waist, tugging him away from the workbench and bringing them flush against each other. Michael gave him a look when he grabbed his ass, but Sam only grinned in return.

“ _Boys_ ,” said Fi suddenly, from where she was lounging on the bed. “It isn’t polite to keep a lady waiting.”

“Is there a lady somewhere around here we’ve kept waiting?” Sam asked her.

Michael winced.

But Fi only snorted and got off the bed, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from Sam. She pushed him onto the bed, straddled him instantly, and kissed him.

A moment later, he felt the bed dip when Sam sat down. Then he felt one of Sam’s hands snake in between him and Fi, undoing the button on his slacks, pulling down the zipper. When his hand slipped inside, past his underwear, and gripped his cock, he moaned softly. Fi started trailing kisses along his jaw, moving to his neck, and Sam leaned in to claim his mouth.

“Who’s the better kisser, Michael?” Fi asked then.

Sam laughed into their kiss and pulled away. “You’re just asking for disappointment.”

“Christ,” Michael groaned, because Sam’s hand was still on his cock and Fi responded to Sam’s jab by biting down lightly on his neck. He still wasn’t entirely sure why this was happening, but goddamn the two of them felt _good_.

“You can’t be that good,” she said then, pulling away to look at Sam.

“I am, baby. You better believe it.”

“I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

Sam considered that, then did something Michael didn’t expect; he leaned in and kissed _Fiona_.

Possibly more unexpectedly, Fiona quite obviously kissed him _back_.

Michael swallowed, watching them kiss, Fi on top of him and Sam’s hand still absently working his cock, and wondered if this somehow _wasn’t_ the hottest thing he’d ever witnessed.

No, he decided, as Sam deepened the kiss and Fiona responded enthusiastically, it was _definitely_ the hottest.

They broke apart finally, breathing heavily. “All right, Sam,” Fi said. “You’re not bad.”

“You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“Excuse me, Michael. Were we ignoring you?”

“I—” He still knew how to form sentences. He was almost sure of it.

Sam smirked. “I think Mikey was enjoying the show.”

Fi smirked back. “But he is wearing far too many clothes, don’t you think?”

“True.”

Fi rolled off him and Sam pulled his hand away, and Fi started tugging off his pants while Sam pulled his shirt over his head. Between the two of them, he was stripped down to his boxer-briefs in no time at all.

“Better,” Fi said approvingly, leaning in and squeezing a nipple. She slid lower down the bed, inching down his underwear until he could kick them off. Then she kissed the head of his cock and took it into her mouth; Sam cut off his surprised groan with a hard kiss.

Fi ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, sucking softly, teasingly, and Sam started kissing his neck, sucking at his Adam’s apple. Michael gripped at the sheets, letting his head fall back, and moaned.

“Fuck,” he managed.

“We’ll get there, Mike,” Sam said, tone sounding like pure sex. “Maybe I’ll fuck you while Fi rides you.”

Fi chose that moment to start humming around him. His hips jerked, and Sam reached down to still them, holding them in place as Fi increased her suction.

“Christ,” he gasped, crushing the sheets as his grip tightened. “ _Fi_ —Sam—”

That was when Fi pulled off, grinning. She licked her lips and looked at Sam. “I like your plan.” She turned her grin on him. “What do you think, Michael?”

Michael breathed raggedly, looking between them. At this rate, they just might kill him. Fifteen years in the intelligence community, facing down drug lords, terrorists, and rival spies, and it turned out that all it took to do him in was the combination of Sam and Fiona.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Excellent.” She pulled her sundress over her head, leaving her in only a pair of tiny panties.

Sam glanced at her, then back at Michael. “I suddenly feel overdressed.”

Fi lifted an eyebrow at him. “You ought to fix that,” she said. “Here, I’ll help.”

She moved, practically launching herself at him. Undoing the button of his pants with her hand, she leaned down and pulled down his zipper with her teeth. “Jesus, Fi,” he muttered.

Michael couldn’t help but agree.

She smirked and tugged down his pants, and Sam shifted to get out of them. Michael watched with rapt attention as Fi helped him with his shirt next, then his undershirt, until he was down to just his boxers. She palmed him through them, making him groan, and Michael bit back his own noise, swallowing hard.

“Lube’s under the pillow,” Sam muttered. “Condoms too.”

Fi groped him one last time before moving to lift one of the pillows, revealing Michael’s SIG Sauer. “Wrong pillow,” she murmured, lifting the other and picking up the bottle of lubricant and a condom. She tossed them to Sam.

Michael sat up to help Sam out of his boxers, both of them momentarily distracted by the sight of Fi shimmying out of her panties. She only smirked as she tossed them to the floor; Sam’s boxers quickly followed.

“On your side, Mike,” Sam said, and he obliged. Fi joined him, kissing him and running a hand down his chest, then dipping lower and gripping his cock. He heard the bottle open and then felt Sam press a finger inside him—just as Fi twisted her hand. He cursed, and Fi grinned, stroking him faster, while Sam added another finger, then another, stretching him.

“Sam,” he groaned.

“Ready, Mike?”

“God yes.”

He sat up and watched Sam pile the pillows and lean back against them, slipping on the condom and taking his cock in hand, slicking it up with the lube. Michael got up on his knees and moved back against him, one of Sam’s hands going to his hip, guiding him, and slowly he sank down on Sam’s cock, groaning at the feel of it filling him, stretching him. Sam’s other hand moved to his hip, and Michael grabbed one of Sam’s legs, lifting up and sinking down again. They both groaned that time.

Fi watched them for a few moments, hand rubbing her clit, before she grinned and crawled forward, carefully straddling Michael’s lap. She kissed him and he used his free hand to press a couple fingers inside her, thumb rubbing her clit. Her hips jerked against his hand, and she gasped and swatted at his wrist. He pulled his hand away, allowing her to slide onto his cock with a breathy sigh of pleasure.

It took a minute to find a rhythm, but not as long as Michael might have thought—Fi would lift up and slide back down, then he would, Sam’s hips jerking up into him, making his own jerk up into Fi. They moved like that, slowly at first, pace increasing as they eased further into the rhythm.

“Feel good, Michael?” Fi murmured in his ear just as Sam thrust up into him hard, making him moan. She clenched around him, drawing the moan out longer.

“Fuck, Fi,” he gasped.

“Think that’s a yes,” Sam said, having the grace to sound a little out of breath.

Fi lifted her hips again, slamming down harder, enough to make even Sam curse. “Fi,” Michael groaned, grip on her hip tightening as he thrust up into her, then slid back onto Sam. “Sam. Christ.” The both of them, Fi tight around him, Sam filling him, Sam’s hands on his hips, Fi’s breath in his ear, it was hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but _feel_.

“Yes, Michael?” Fi asked, voice low.

“You both feel,” he gritted out, “incredible.”

“Of course we do,” she said, looking far too smug.

“Humble,” managed Sam.

“I’m no fan of false modesty,” she said, biting her lip at Michael’s thrust. “Mm, Michael, just like that.”

“You even know what the word means?” asked Sam through a groan.

Michael let their banter wash over him as they moved together, focusing on his breathing, the way they felt, the pleasure shooting through him with every shift of their hips. He knew he had to be close, his breathing getting more and more ragged, a familiar tingling at the base of his spine.

“Guys,” he said suddenly, gripping tighter at both Sam and Fi. “I—”

“It’s all right, Michael,” murmured Fi, and she clenched around him again. Sam’s hips thrust up into him, propelling him further into Fi. His grip tightened again, and they repeated the motion, making him moan loudly.

“Fi—” he gasped. “Sam—”

Fi clenched again. He came as Sam thrust again, holding onto both of them for dear life as his orgasm tore through him, gasping for breath as frissons of pleasure zapped down his spine.

Fi kissed him softly before pulling off him, helping him ease off Sam and shift to the side of the bed. He breathed hard, trying to catch his breath, and eyed them. “Give me a second,” he said.

Sam smirked, removing the condom. He tossed it into the trashcan and took his cock in hand. “No problem, Mikey,” he said.

Fi gave Sam an appraising look. “You’re a decent kisser, Sam,” she said. “What else can you do with your mouth?”

He grinned and leered. “Come here and find out.”

Michael watched Fi take him up on that, straddling his chest. Sam slipped two fingers inside her, pumping them as he sucked at her clit. Having caught his breath, Michael shifted and moved between Sam’s legs, leaning down and taking his cock into his mouth. He heard Sam let out a muffled moan.

It made Fi groan. “I like how that felt,” she said unsteadily.

Michael focused on Sam’s cock, quickly bobbing up and down, sucking hard. Muffled groans and Fi’s curses filled the air. He started humming, lifting a hand to rub and squeeze Sam’s balls.

“ _Fuck_ ,” muttered Fi. “Christ. Sam—” She let out a low, guttural cry as she came.

Michael quickened his pace on Sam’s cock, increasing the intensity of the humming, tonguing his slit. Sam’s curses were less muffled now, and a glance up told him why: Fi had moved off his chest and to the side of the bed. Sam reached a hand down to grip Michael’s shoulder, groaning as he worked his cock.

“Like that, Mike, just like that,” Sam muttered, groaning and hips jerking as he finished. Michael swallowed and pulled off, wiping his mouth. Sam panted, clearly trying to catch his breath.

They rearranged the pillows, Michael settling against Sam and Fi settling against him. “That was…” He stopped. He wasn’t sure he really had words.

“Yeah,” Sam said, shifting. “It was.”

“Boys, it’s time to rest. Especially if we want to do this again.”

He couldn’t help but grin at the thought. “Yes.”

“There’s just one thing, Mikey,” Sam muttered, shifting again. “If we’re going to keep this up, you’re definitely going to need a bigger bed.”

Michael snorted through a yawn. “Consider it done, Sam.”

\---

“Ma?” he asked, frowning, as he stepped back to let her in. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Sam was with her, looking everywhere but at his face, and he followed her in the door.

“No, Michael,” she said. “Nothing happened. At least, nothing that I’ve been _told_.”

That cryptic statement hung in the air as she looked around the loft, then glanced at him shrewdly. He was _not_ going to ask. He tried to silently ask Sam, who just gave him a shrug and an apologetic look.

“You got a new bed, Michael.”

“What?” he asked, attention back on his mom.

“Your bed. It’s new. I thought I noticed it last time I was here, and I did—it’s bigger than the other one was. Though why you still insist on keeping it on the ground like this, I’ll never understand.”

“Ah, yeah,” he said. “I just needed a new one.”

“What was wrong with the old one?”

“It was old,” he said.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “Michael, half this place is rusted through. You expect me to believe you replaced your mattress because it was a few years old?”

“There’s nothing to believe, Mom. That’s what happened.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound remotely convinced. Wordlessly, she headed to the fridge, opening the door. “You’re keeping a lot more beer in the fridge, Sam. Spending more time here?”

“Sure, I guess,” Sam said with a half-shrug, eyebrows furrowing at the question. “It’s for everyone, really, and it’s just easier this way. You know how Mikey is. He’d buy nothing but yogurt if Fi let him.”

She gave him a withering look. Michael’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline. “Mom, can you excuse me and Sam for a minute? I just need to talk to him about one of our cases.”

Before she could answer, he grabbed Sam’s arm and led him out onto the balcony. “What did you do?” he demanded in a low whisper.

“Nothing, Mikey! I mean, I don’t know. All day, she’s been like this, asking me pointed questions about ‘things she should know’, stuff about you, and Fi—finally she just demanded I bring her over here, wouldn’t even let me call you to give you a heads up.”

“Does she know?” he asked.

“I think she suspects.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe we should tell her.”

“Maybe,” Michael said doubtfully.

“Do you have a better idea to get her out of this mood?”

He sighed. “All right.” He paused. “Should we call Fi as backup?”

“That might not be a bad idea. I’ll call her. You go talk to your mom.”

Michael groaned. “Really?”

“Mikey, come on. She’s been death-glaring at me all day.”

“Fine, Sam. Hurry up calling Fi.”

He left the balcony. His mom had started smoking.

“I wish you wouldn’t treat me like I’m an idiot, Michael,” she said.

“I’m not, Mom,” he replied. “You should sit down. There _is_ something I’d like to tell you.”

That was one of the bigger lies he’d told lately. There were a lot of things he’d like to be doing right at this moment—escaping from an Albanian prison, for example, or maybe trying to build a transistor radio out of some scrap wire and parts of a junked toaster—and exactly _none_ of them were explaining to his mother that first of all, he was bisexual, and second of all, he, Fi, and Sam were in some sort of ridiculous threesome relationship that even _he_ didn’t understand half the time, let alone expect _her_ to.

But this was how his life worked. No one ever popped out of the woodwork to try to kill him when it might prove to be a convenient distraction, or at least a good excuse to postpone this conversation, say, indefinitely.

“This better be good,” she said, giving him a shrewd look. Sam walked back into the loft.

“Fi’s on her way,” he said.

“Shouldn’t the two of you talk to her _alone_?” She gave them both a pointed look.

“Uh, she’s coming to talk to you, Maddie,” Sam said, looking thrown.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“Mom, Sam, Fi and I—Sam and I—” Michael stopped. He could woo international criminals and charm sociopaths, but try to tell his mother about his personal life and suddenly he had all the social grace of a math nerd the week before prom. “I’m bisexual,” he finally blurted out.

She only raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Well, yes, I knew _that_ , Michael. The number of times I almost interrupted you and Andre…”

That stopped him cold. “You _knew_ about that?”

“Of course I knew about that. I’m your mother.”

“Right.” He was, for a change, well and truly stunned. Only his mother. “Okay. Well. Sam and I—in the past—but now—”

“You’re seeing each other,” she finished impatiently. “I know that. What I want to know, Michael, is what you plan to tell Fiona? I will not lie for you,” she said firmly, fixing him with a hard look. “You have to tell her yourself.”

At that, Sam let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Maddie—wait—you think Fi doesn’t know?” He laughed again. “You think I’d risk having half my limbs blown up?”

“Aw, Sam, I always knew you were a little afraid of me.” Fi could certainly have excellent timing sometimes.

Sam groaned. “That was not what it sounded like,” he said, pointing at her.

She smirked at him. “It sounded to me like you were properly wary about what I might have done to you had you gone near Michael without my permission.”

“Then you _do_ know about them, dear?” his mom asked her, looking concerned.

Fi smiled reassuringly. “I encouraged them, Madeline. You didn’t think they were going behind my back?”

“I didn’t _want_ to,” she admitted, “but the way they’ve both been acting, and then Sam brushed off a beautiful woman when we were out shopping the other day, I couldn’t help but wonder.”

“ _That’s_ what I did,” Sam said, realization dawning on his features.

Michael snorted. “For me, Sam?” he asked dryly.

“And me?” Fi added, giving him a coy expression.

He rolled his eyes and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

His mother only smiled and shook her head. “I’m glad we got this straightened out, Michael. Thank you for telling me.”

He stared at her. “That’s it?”

“What else did you want me to say?” She looked genuinely curious. “If any three people can make this work, it’s you three. You fit together.”

Fi smiled. “Thank you, Madeline. That’s a lovely thing to say.”

She shrugged. “It’s true.” She glanced at Sam. “Can you give me a ride back home, Sam?”

“Sure thing, Maddie.” He waved and followed her out of the loft.

Michael gave Fi an incredulous look. “I did not see that coming.”

“Give your mother some credit, Michael,” she said, heading over and leaning up to kiss him. “She knows you a lot better than you think she does.”

“Apparently, Fi,” he said, kissing her back. “Apparently.”

 

  
**vi (a).**   


Fi smirked as Michael promptly fell fast asleep, obviously run ragged. “It looks like we wore him out,” she said to Sam, who smirked back.

“We’re just that good,” he said, stretching.

“True.” She leaned back against the pillows. “Michael does enjoy when we get…competitive, doesn’t he?”

Sam snorted. “Enjoy is an understatement.”

“It is,” she agreed, smiling faintly as she looked at him. “But it’s…nice to see him sleep this deeply.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Especially since he’s been stretching himself pretty thin lately.” He smirked. “Good thing all it takes is a little friendly competition.”

“That is a good thing,” she said. “It’s just a shame you never have a chance. I’m impressed by how gracefully you accept that, Sam.”

“Oh, you are, huh?” Sam asked her, arching an eyebrow. “Sounds to me like you’re living in some kind of bizarro universe, and once Mikey wakes up from his sex coma, I’m sure he’ll agree.”

Fi laughed and decided she’d have to remember to pass along the description of Michael’s slumber as a ‘sex coma’ once he woke up. “Maybe,” she conceded, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“There’s no maybe about it, lady, and you know it.”

“I do, do I?”

“Do I have to show you again?”

“Again? You’ve shown me a first time?” She smirked.

“I’ve shown you more than a first time.”

“If you say so.” She smiled coquettishly. “Sure you have the energy left?”

“Always, baby,” he said with an exaggerated leer, pulling her toward him.

She laughed and straddled him. “ _Someone_ has an overdeveloped sense of confidence.”

“It’s not overdeveloped,” he said, one of his large hands sliding down her back, the other tangled in her hair. “It’s developed just right.” He pulled her head in and kissed her hard. “Admit it,” he added, once they broke apart.

“Oh, you haven’t proven anything yet,” she told him.

He kissed her again, hand gripping her hip, and she returned it—he really was a great kisser, as much as she enjoyed riling him up, and she liked how his hands felt on her. They were different from Michael’s—a little bigger, a little rougher. It wasn’t better or worse, just new. Interesting. Fiona liked interesting.

They continued making out for a few minutes, one of his hands roaming along her ass and sliding up her back, the other cupping her breasts, fingers toying with a nipple. She gasped and pressed into his hands, glancing over to her right. Michael was still dead to the world.

“What do you think Michael would do if he woke up right now and saw us?”

Sam snorted. “He’d get that look in his eyes,” he said. “You know the one.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, absently running her hands down his chest. “The one where he can’t quite decide if what he’s seeing is real or not.”

“And like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen either way.”

Fi smirked. “Which, to be perfectly honest, it probably is.”

“No arguments here.”

Her smirk waned as she looked at Michael again, strangely peaceful in sleep. That was weird. Nice to see, of course, but weird. “Has he even eaten a real meal lately?”

“I made something yesterday.”

“Good,” she said, then straightened. “I’ve decided I want you to fuck me, Sam. Can you handle that?”

He gave her an even look. “With my hands tied.”

She responded with a look of her own, shooting him an evil grin. “Ooh, now _there’s_ an idea.”

Sam only rolled his eyes. “Maybe some other time,” he said. “When Mike’s awake.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Sam.”

“I know you will, Fi.”

 

****

**vi (b).**

In Sam’s long and varied experience, watching Mike talk his way out of getting shot in the head never got any easier.

He’d half-figured it would have by now, given how many times it’d happened over the course of the past several years, but every time, his reaction was the same, that small, heavy pit of dread settling deep in his gut, threatening to make him sicker than eight or ten shots of tequila.

Unfortunately, Chuck Finley wasn’t allowed to care. “I hear you,” he said to their latest bad guy, a corrupt city official using her position to help launder money for a fairly new, yet surprisingly industrious, gangster racket that had come into town. Her eyes were narrowed and calculating, and she was holding that gun with the steady hand of someone who knew what the fuck they were doing. “I can barely stand this guy myself. Honestly, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve wanted to shoot him…well, actually, I do.” He grinned a very cheesy grin. “But to be fair, that’s mostly because of him.”

“Just hear me out,” said Mike, nervously, because his cover was a tweedy accountant who had gotten frustrated with his lot in life and had turned to the dark side. “Five minutes of your time. You won’t be disappointed.”

Her eyes flicked between them, Mike playing freaked out and Sam playing bored and indifferent, and she slowly lowered the gun. “Five minutes,” she said crisply. “But I warn you. Surprise me like that again and I’ll put two between his eyes and frame you for the murder. Am I understood?”

“Loud and clear,” said Sam, and damn, he would be so fucking happy when this job was over.

Fi was going to throw a fit. She’d been opposed to this plan from the beginning, and now Sam was realizing she’d been right.

At least she got it, though. How it never got any easier.

\---

“And that was _exactly_ why that plan was a _bad idea_ ,” Fi muttered under her breath, only loud enough for him to hear. Mike and Jesse were engrossed in a discussion at the workbench about his part of this thing. This was phase two with Fi, Sam knew, another by-product of his experience. Phase one had been the yelling. He stood and headed for the fridge, grabbing two beers, and returned to his seat. He passed her one without a word.

After a moment, he said, “Yeah. You were right.”

She didn’t respond smartly, just took a sip from the bottle, and blew out a frustrated breath.

“It’s worse when it’s him,” Sam added, quietly. “Not because I don’t, uh—with you—oh, hell, you know.” That earned him a smirk. “Whatever. But it’s somehow worse when it’s him.”

“I love you both,” Fi said, and stuck her tongue out at him, which just made him roll his eyes. He held back a grin. “But no, you’re right. It is worse when it's him. Michael is…” she stopped, looking thoughtful, before continuing, “far more likely to get consumed.”

He met her eyes. “Exactly.”

They both glanced over at the workbench. He lifted his beer at her in a _cheers_ gesture.

Fi returned the motion, shaking her head, and took a long drink.


	7. Chapter 7

****

**VII.**

_Spies must have an unusual and varied skill set. They’ll need to know how to pick locks, hotwire cars, break into secure buildings—and more. It’s not a coincidence that these skills are also ones that criminals often acquire; there are plenty of spies who could have easily wound up on that road if not for the right set of circumstances. It’s a fact of life: many did not grow up in ideal homes._

_This sort of childhood takes an emotional toll on a person. Spycraft provides a useful outlet, a way for someone to turn the negatives surrounding their upbringing into a positive—serving one’s country._

_But in this career path, relationships and self-identity are not prioritized. While spies are trained to be able to ingratiate themselves with others, fooling strangers is a long way from the honesty and communication that people in relationships tend to expect. Combined with an emotionally stunted bedrock, navigating these waters can be ill-advised at best and downright dangerous at worst, often with little hope of success._

_It’s therefore not a surprise that many relationships end badly for spies._

_Be it the constant travel, the manipulation, the lifestyle, the way things are kept close to the vest, or the inability to be completely honest, most of time, it won’t work out._

_Of course, that only makes it all the more remarkable when it does._


End file.
